


Liberté, Egalité, Demi-plié

by darrenjolras



Series: Arcadia ballet!verse [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Anxiety, Ballet, Dancing, M/M, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, also melanesian enjolras, can you feel the piningjolras?, except bahorel who's still a law student?, grantaire is one big ball of anxiety and depression, iliad references, in which everyone is an arts au of themselves, so many Iliad references, sorry bahorel, yeah this is gonna be a slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-09-06 10:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 71,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8747524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darrenjolras/pseuds/darrenjolras
Summary: He has sworn never to go back to the ballet world. He has no intention of dancing again. But somewhere the Fates are having a real party laughing down at him, because one minute Grantaire's living his life in peace and the next he's - choreographing a new ballet of the Iliad?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is but one certainty in life, that the _Iliad_ would make a fucking amazing ballet. 
> 
> (...But as I'm not a choreographer, Grantaire gets the honours.)

Sometimes he catches himself doing battement tendus behind the bar.

And then he pushes himself away, finishes mixing someone’s drink, sweeps around the side to go stack up dirty glasses around the pub. It’s pathetic to call it fun, but it _is_ fun, equal to the childish challenge of teetering book-towers at the library. Grantaire piles the glasses high, from his outstretched palm up to his chin, some of his old agility to hand as he dodges the more boisterous patrons and swirls the stack back into the kitchen.

He narrowly avoids a heart attack when he reappears behind the bar and is met by a thunderous slap on the counter and the accompanying roar: “Gran _taire_!”

Not every friendly greeting is quite so capable of striking paralysing terror into anyone who hears it. The entire pub plunges into nervous silence. The newest customer doesn’t seem to notice.

Waiting as talk stirs up once more, Grantaire salutes the bearded, biker-jacketed, Herculean hulk of a man, turns away and then slides a whiskey towards him. “Alright?” He says, with an easy grin. “How’re you? How’s Law?”

“A most cruel mistress,” Bahorel returns, taking an emphatically long draught of his drink. “Best lesson I’ve ever learnt is still to ignore every goddamn battery law and make your point clear by breaking a nose or two.”

Grantaire laughs. Bahorel needs no encouragement there, but that doesn’t mean Grantaire has it in him to disagree, either. “And that’ll see you breezing through the Bar one day, I’m sure.”

Bahorel shudders. Given he has managed to be ‘studying’ for an actual decade already - with as little discernible progress as possible - he isn’t sure any exam is too looming a worry. (Bahorel and ‘worry’ are oil and water, at any rate, and his natural nonchalance towards his life plans are the only reason Grantaire feels comfortable baiting him about law school in the first place. Because as far as _life plans_ go, he’s really not one to talk.)

“Listen, man, the only bar in my vocabulary is this one. Anyway, what time are you off?”

“In -” Grantaire compares the clock on the wall with the time on his phone, “- twenty or so. Why?”

“I’ll stick around while you close, yeah? I’ve got a proposition for you.”

One of Grantaire’s eyebrows rises in... suspicion or interest, he isn’t really sure. “Alright,” he agrees, giving Bahorel an apologetic half-wave as he moves away to tend to a waiting patron.

As the twenty minutes inch by, Grantaire tosses around a few theories, but in the end doesn’t dwell on the mysterious proposition just yet. Whatever it is, he isn’t sure that it’s ever wise to go along with Bahorel’s brainchilds, although the usual brainchilds are a) entirely spontaneous and b) have the benefit of drunkenness. He doesn’t know whether a _planned_ plan is going to be better or much, much worse.

The last regular is out the door and Grantaire is halfway finished wiping down tables when Bahorel, who has been helpfully tidying the chairs, drags him towards the last two left out, sits him down and snatches the cloth so there will be no fidgeting.

“So.” He says.

“So,” Grantaire parrots back. “Shall I guess?”

“Nah, you’d never get it.” Maybe it’s the way Bahorel’s looking pensive, taking his time - or maybe he’s just knackered, brain at half-capacity right now, unequipped to deal with propositions of any kind - but something in Grantaire’s stomach is already churning.

That is probably a bad feeling.

Bahorel laughs, and finally gets it out. “You know the Arcadia?”

Grantaire squints. “ _Your_ Arcadia? The theatre?” Technically Bahorel’s parents’ theatre. Mr. and Mrs. Bahorel have the strangest assortment of properties in the city, bought with the money they aren’t throwing at the law school with the sort of helpless but farfetched hope of seeing their son do something useful. Grantaire doesn’t know how they made their money originally, but they certainly don’t seem to like letting it sit around. Property investing was not it, as far as he knows, though they sometimes buy up places for serious redevelopment. And occasionally just because Mrs. Bahorel ‘has always wanted’ to own a converted warehouse. A block of studio flats. A disused train station. A Portuguese patisserie. An alpaca farm.

And a run-down theatre.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. Definitely a bad feeling.

“Well, they’ve been renting it out, but the drama kids’ workshop had to be shut down months back, that old stand-up comedian kicked the bucket or moved to the Bahamas, I don’t know, and the last production - that singing one? With the people dressed as weird cats? -”

“ _Cats_ ,” Grantaire tells him, with his best straight face.

“Whatever, but it was a flop. Absolute crap. The guy spent too much on costumes, apparently, and then he set the stage on fire, like what the _fuck_ -” There’s some intense hand-waving going on now.

He could listen to Bahorel criticise amateur musical productions all night.

“Anyway, they’ve had no interest since then, no one to hire it out, and they’ve been thinking of selling it on.”

“Shame,” Grantaire offers, not unsympathetically.

“There’s been no interest in _buying_ it either, though - those motherfucking cats have cursed it - so what they really want _now_ is for someone to do something there. While it’s empty anyway. The alpacas are still their priority right now, but they said they might have the theatre spruced up a little, if someone’s actually using it. I think they’re hoping someone will eventually see its potential.”

 “...Right.”

 “See what I’m saying?” Bahorel prods. “Man, they said you should do something with it.”

 Grantaire did not see that coming in the slightest. Taken aback, the laugh tears out of him. “Me?”

 Bahorel stares at him pointedly.

 “Like, put on a show or something. Maybe even get people to come see it, if you want. Dude, they know you were into all that stuff. They thought, like, _ballet_. That’s sophisticated shit, even if it’s awful it’ll be better than anything else they’ve had in there.” He is looking terrifyingly earnest about this. Grantaire feels slightly queasy.

 “ _Were_ being the operative word.” He _was_ into all that stuff. Ballet. The arts. Being on stage.

 It’s been a long time since then. That is a different world.

 “Yeah, they know.”

 “So they want the place put back on the map by a guy who fell off the ends of earth six years ago?” Grantaire says slowly, dumbfounded. “Makes sense.”

 “They’re _all_ about their comebacks. You know, the ‘oh, one more, for old time’s sake’ deal. Pretty sure they’re both still hanging their hopes on a Beatles reunion - though I don’t know what they’re after, Lennon and Harrison to chime in from beyond the grave? Sense isn’t their special strength.”

 “That’s nice of them and all,” ...or is it horrifyingly presumptuous of them? But as well as Bahorel’s parents know him, they don’t _know_ him, don’t know how this is already dredging up memories he has tried so hard to banish. Memories he would have tossed right into the fire, if only there was as tangible a satisfaction to that as seeing all the show programme souvenirs with his name printed in them shrivel into ashes. “But...”

 “Dude, they want to _pay_ you to use it. You could do what you like, put on anything.”

 “Anything?” Grantaire asks, still half-convinced this is all a joke.

 “Anything.”

 “Alright.” He skims through an off-the-top-of-his-head list of ridiculous ideas, wanting to at least get a laugh out of this before he shuts it down. “A classical dance adaptation of _Legally Blonde_ , you as Elle Woods. How’s that?”

 “Much as the world is waiting to see me on stage - or to see me _blond_ \- I am allergic to even song-and-dance depictions of law, and am going to have to let this one go. But yeah, sure, you could do that.”

 He pauses, and flips back into frankness. “I know this is way out of left field, and probably the last fucking thing you want to do. But there’s no pressure, you know? My parents don’t actually care. It’s already tanked, there’s no more damage that can be done. I mean, for some reason they vetoed my proposal of converting it into a fight club, but -” He sighs deeply. “I figure they’ll get round to selling it one day, but they’re not expecting anyone to make money out of it for the time being. Christ, they just don’t like it sitting around collecting dust. So, look, do whatever you want.”

 Grantaire gives a noncommittal hum.

 Bahorel eyes him. “But my parents will pay you for pissing about if that’s all you do there, so you’d better not say no. Don’t be an ass, just smile and nod and take their money. I mean, God knows why they trust you over _me_. You’ve beaten out their own flesh and blood and become their favourite son without even trying, you bastard.”

 “I’ve been waiting for a good time to tell you that I’m your father’s secret lovechild for years,” Grantaire plays along, more wary about committing to the actual request. He thinks he would feel a hell of a lot worse about taking their money with nothing to show for it, but Bahorel isn’t nearly as oblivious as he pretends to be. Making rent is murder in this city, and neither pub nor library gig are star candidates for covering it. “I guess the truth is finally out.”

 “Goddamnit, Jon Snow!” Bahorel leaps out of his seat, then breaks into a grin. “I’ve gotta go, but think about it, yeah?”

 He fishes some keys out of his jacket pocket and deposits them on the table.

“Think about it. Boxing on Monday, right - I’ll see ya!”

 After Bahorel’s departure, Grantaire sits a while, idly digging the tip of one of the keys into the wooden table. Heaving a sigh, he eventually stands, slips the set of theatre keys into his pocket and locates the pub ones instead.

Outside, he lets the night air wash over him in cool relief.

 

 The next morning, he has the first shift at the library, so between rolling out of bed, attempting to munch on a banana whilst cycling through city traffic without dying - not a recommended activity, but one Grantaire dares to try far too often - and making it in the nick of time, Grantaire hasn’t had a chance to think about Bahorel’s proposition.

 But as soon as he has a heap of returned books to reshelve, he has little else to do but think.

 Doing ballet again. _Thinking_ about doing ballet again. This is ridiculous.

 There’s an ache in his legs, from more than the cycling. It is imagined, he knows, a false jolt back to that feeling of unadulterated exhaustion that he used to know. The kind that comes after hours of dancing - performing - the kind of fatigue that cuts right to the bone, that is shaking limbs and a melted brain, that is feeling ready to sleep for a thousand years but also alive, so _alive,_ when every last dreg of emotion is depleted and still that blistering hunger insists, _keep going_.

 He squints hard at the shelf until he gives himself a headache, and as he finally slots in the book where it is supposed to be he’s forgotten the ache. All he can feel now is anxiety coiled in his stomach, clenching at his insides. Lest he forget, he used to feel this too.

 He can’t focus on anything, so when he ducks out on his mid-morning break, he digs his phone out of his pocket and thumbs through to Bahorel’s name. Bahorel’s parents won’t really care, so he can’t feel too cut up about this. Part of him, still, wants to put it all into words and give them a real excuse... but he can already feel the words piling up and up and up, until there are a mountain of them and all meaning has been buried somewhere in the avalanche. People have been waiting for him to make proper excuses for the past six years, and Grantaire has not. Satisfactory explanations: why is he so bad at them?

 In the end, he deletes the message, starts over, sticks to simplicity, and sends it.

>   **R:** thanks, man, and i mean that, but i’m gonna have to say no to the thing. i don’t really have the time for ballet right now. tell your parents thanks from me, though, and good luck with the theatre.  

 After that, he manages to do his job without feeling like he might be accosted and made to walk the plank out of a sixth-storey window at any moment.

 

 “Yeah, but you didn’t like it, did you?” Gavroche points out, the next afternoon.

 Didn’t _like_ it, now there’s the understatement of the century.

 “Just because I found ballet school a soul-crushing, life-sucking black hole, doesn’t mean everyone does,” Grantaire answers with a laugh. The last thing he wants to do is project his own problems onto the kid, whose greatest pleasure seems to be leaping around the studio (er, the living room, adapted by means of removing the furniture, pulling up the moth-eaten rug, and adding a sea of mirrors to the walls) in the afternoons under Grantaire’s lacklustre supervision.  

 He might have sworn off ballet - might have gone full kamikaze in breaking from it - but his connection to that lost world hangs, not-quite-severed, by a last pair of threads, namely Gavroche and Eponine. He can’t bring himself to be bitter over it, just like he couldn’t bring himself to move out from their shared flat when his career went down in flames. What would he have done without the two of them, anyway, trying to move on? He would have been a stranger in his own life.

 Eponine is still living a version of the life he used to, and managing a million times better. That said, she is barely twenty-five with sole responsibility of her pre-teen brother, juggling raising Gavroche with her gruelling position with the city ballet. It is the least Grantaire can do to hold down the fort, and so, when he’s not working, he babysits her brother.

 Of course, the kid would kick up a storm of a fuss if anyone confronted him with the notion of being babysat. Not like he’ll let anyone do much on his behalf, to begin with: he is happy to get himself to and from school, is already a more deft cook than his sister, and if wits are in question, he is lightning, more than a match for all the adults he comes across put _together_. He would be perfectly happy to potter around the flat by himself, but Grantaire knows Eponine is rooted by her fears of what might become of him without any structure, so Gavroche-sitting has become their dedicated daily ballet practice. Grantaire also knows that Gavroche looks up to no one in the world more than his elder sister, so is determined to follow in her footsteps.

 “It’s a challenge, but it works for some people. It could be the best thing that ever happens to you,” Grantaire continues, trying for neutrality. Gavroche flies across the room in a grand jeté, and then adds a spontaneous pirouette, missing the wall by centimetres.

 “I might not even get in,” he says matter-of-factly, wheeling around. “And ‘Ponine can’t afford it if I don’t get a scholarship.” And Gavroche didn’t need to be told that, he just knows.

 “You’ll get one.” Grantaire promises him, just as matter-of-factly. He watches Gavroche nonchalantly chassé into a pas de chat, can’t imagine the banal pressures of ballet school causing so much as a scratch on him.

 “And she can’t go back to Dad for anything. It was bad enough when _she_ was going for ballet, but imagine if he finds out about me. He’ll go ballistic.” He mimes a head exploding.

 Knowing what he does of Mr. Thenardier, Grantaire can’t disagree.

 Mind you, the man isn’t exactly one for checking up on his children, so it’s doubtful that he’ll ever find out.

 “Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out,” he offers, with feeling. “Here.” He lunges for Gavroche’s foot as he saunters past, who is abruptly forced to shift his balance as his turnout gets adjusted, and Grantaire receives a real grin in gratitude.

 

Usually, Eponine gets home for dinner, and then Grantaire leaves for his shift at the pub. Tonight, however, he’s not working. Instead he and Gavroche are off to the opera house.

It’s the opening night of a new mixed programme, and Grantaire suppresses the nausea at being _there_ , being back, as they skirt around to meet Eponine at the stage door before the show. She pulls them into the hallway, her makeup and costume already on and in the midst of  breaking in a pair of pointe shoes. “It’s hell in here,” she informs the two of them, though her eyes are alight even as she adds, “no one can find a whole rack of costumes - or the conductor - and Miss ‘I’m-BFFs-with-the-entire-Bolshoi’ is having a meltdown in the dressing room right now.” 

“Just the usual, then,” Grantaire snorts. Eponine rolls her eyes in answer and asks Gavroche something, but Grantaire misses it, because someone has accidentally barrelled into him.

 “Hey, sorry,” the guy says, clapping Grantaire apologetically on the shoulder. He shrugs at the dancer, but looks up and there he is - tanned, curly-haired, Mexican-Colombian - practically a Carlos Acosta in the making. He flashes white teeth in nothing short of a beam. “Grantaire?!”

 “Courfeyrac, my man,” Grantaire replies weakly. Someone down the hall is calling for him, but Courfeyrac hasn’t let him go yet.

 “Shit, it’s amazing to see you,” he exclaims. “I was starting to think Ep was living with a ghost -”

 Another yell for him. Grantaire raises his eyebrows, not quite able to stifle his grin. Courf pauses to plant a kiss on Eponine’s head and exchange a “Merde” with her; laughing, she shoves him off on his way. “See you all afterwards!” He calls, pointing back expectantly at Grantaire before he is carried off by the current of the bustling corridor.

 Eponine and Gavroche are already eyeing Grantaire when he looks back at them.

 “Thanks for coming,” Eponine says.

 Grantaire nods.

 He is trying not to feel overwhelmed. It’s not the _first_ time in six years that he’s been standing in this old building, not the only time he’s seen an old friend again, but, apparently, the longer it gets, the worse it feels. And being here so soon after Bahorel’s out-of-the-blue offer... it is a lot. A lot of ballet, all at once. The fates poking fun about a path he couldn’t take.

 He’d been offhand in telling Eponine about Bahorel’s proposition, and so she’d been just as offhand in answer. (“Fuck off, why didn’t he ask me instead? I could have done the solo they didn’t give me, for starters,” she’d quipped.)

 So she gets it.

 “See you later.”

 

 Together, he and Gavroche seemingly make up a rather more irreverent corner of the audience, fighting over the last few Maltesers and laughing riotously as their neighbours side-eye them, as if pegging that the two of them will be trouble. They’re not, of course: the moment the conductor makes his entrance, they fall back, silent, while the prim and proper woman to their right manages to keep rustling in her handbag whilst the orchestra strikes up.

With Gavroche as a fortunate distraction, Grantaire hasn’t glanced at the programme yet; all he’s heard has been an Eponine-eye account of rehearsals. He does know, though, that first up tonight is a classic George Balanchine piece.

 Any Balanchine choreography is iconic, obviously. But at the same time, Grantaire has always thought Balanchine’s _Apollo_ to be full of poses, almost too much static, too much stepping - regardless, it’s one of those roles any male dancer would kill to play.

 The curtain rises, and light falls upon Apollo.

 He looks young, which would be slightly surprising casting for any other principal role, but here can only work in his favour as he plays out the childish god - light, airy, innocent. He strums the lyre experimentally, surprise soon becoming delight, and his eyes are alive with a smile as he herds up the three female muses, looking to them to be taught.

 With the muses’ instruction in poetry, mime and dance, Apollo matures, an impossibly good student, refining his early, almost clumsy, sprightliness until he’s just annoyingly impressive, and the one utterly in control.

 Knowing intimately what it’s like to be onstage - to be on _that_ stage - Grantaire feels the way a filmmaker must feel watching a film, seeing every individual, deconstructed part, always being acutely aware of what the rest of the iceberg looks like, lurking below water. It is difficult to divorce himself from the ritual and routine of it all, to not see the wings, the crowds of people working backstage, to not picture the mirror view from the stage, pick out dancers’ steps and to know a little of what it feels like. He doesn’t watch ballet often, from this angle. He does it for Eponine, sure, but otherwise it isn’t the easiest thing to enjoy.

 But now Apollo is alone onstage, and - damn, he’s good. There is - something about him, something that allows Grantaire to forget. For a moment here and there, he _isn’t_ considering the mechanics any more, doesn’t have to compulsively count the music in his head. He doesn’t have to think at all.

 As Apollo spins, bluish spotlights turn to warmer yellow, swathing him in sunlight. His costume is a simple white, his hair a shock of gold, his skin burnished still further, darker than bronze.

 But it is the way his body moves, though: he is like marble enchanted into flesh. A Bernini come to life. Pygmalion’s peerless Galatea. And despite all that, it doesn’t feel like posturing, it just looks natural. Always perfectly centred and working every breath into his movements, he leaves no room for fumbling, never seems to miss his mark.

 Gavroche has leaned towards him and whispered something else in his ear, but Grantaire cannot feign irreverence now, and doesn’t answer, can’t look away.

 It’s a relief when the curtain falls, and they move on to the next piece.

  
 And at least Eponine’s there now, partnering stage-left. Another pair mirror them on the other side, but it is the central couple whose pas de deux is most elaborate and most technical. She’s one of the muses from earlier, back again to show off her skill. And Grantaire realises that this is who he’s heard so much about. It is her first year with the ballet here, after a year or two in Sydney, and she is already the darling of the ballet masters. She’s leapt in as a first soloist, a clear sign that the company sees potential in her to progress into principal roles.

 Eponine had been counting on that promotion.

Instead she’s been stuck where she is for three years in a row. Grantaire isn’t sure why: after all, she dances her part exceptionally well, and she and her partner here - Feuilly - are well-matched. Either of them deserve the opportunity to do more.

But that’s not always how it works in this world, and that’s only one reason on the epic list of why he’s better off gone from it.

Chewing on his tongue, he forces himself back into watching the scene, his eyes nearly always fixed to Eponine and Feuilly. There’s no sign of Apollo among the dancers in this act.

 

  
Grantaire isn’t sure whether he blames Eponine’s ability to barter household favours or Courfeyrac’s talent at puppy-dog eyes more for this, but the fact remains that after the third piece, they all traipse over to a bar across the road for the opening party. It’s really a low-key affair, journalists wildly outnumbered by family and friends, and most of the dancers are so knackered it’s a wonder they aren’t swaying on their feet without a drink in them, but, as most of them get the night off tomorrow while the alternate cast perform, they may as well take the chance to deviate from their routine where it is offered.

He feels a little more at ease once he has propped himself by the bar and downed two drinks while Eponine makes her rounds. He’s happy enough to loiter here, mostly to avoid having to bump into old acquaintances and friends. If Courfeyrac’s still here, he doesn’t doubt there will be others, and the last thing he wants to deal with are questions of _how he’s getting on now, what exciting things is he up to, probably a ton of travelling and maybe TV work, right?_ Listen, no one he has ever spoken to since his departure has received his unironic answer of ‘bartending’ without an awkward laugh and frown of consternation, so forgive him for not bothering.

 Just as he begins to contemplate a third drink, his gaze catches onto a shock of blond curls, and instantly he just knows there is an invisible fisherman somewhere gloating over the hook, line and sinker that Grantaire has just swallowed like he’s been practicing with circus knives all his life.  

 How unfair is it that anyone can have such a presence on and off the stage? He’s tall without seeming _towering_ , but there’s something unearthly about him still. In proper light, his hair is even blonder, his skin even darker. He’s a little less poised now, perhaps - he’s slouching a fraction, not quite smiling, a hand slung across his body, curled around his opposite arm - but there is a burning earnestness in his eyes as he congratulates another dancer. Maybe not quite Greek god anymore, but, shit, he could probably still pass for a demigod, at least.

 Well, fuck that.

 Grantaire hastily casts around for a different subject. Finding none, he backs up, wondering where Eponine has gotten to now - abandoning him here like a lost duckling - and nearly treads on someone’s toes in the process.

 “Sorry!” He exclaims, at the same time she does.

 “Terpsichore, isn’t it?” He realises. She is small and slender and exceedingly pretty, hair still held up in a shiny bun. Perhaps it’s just a side-effect of ballet, but there is something almost birdlike in the way she holds herself so lightly, as though her limbs are made of air.

 She beams. “Well, yes,” she says, “though I do get Cosette more often. It’s lovely to meet you.” She holds out her hand. Grantaire takes it, and it is possibly the fiercest handshake he has ever felt.

 “You were spectacular,” he offers, grinning but sincere, entirely forgetting that he is supposed to bear a grudge against her. “Grantaire,” he adds, hoping against hope that some scandals never reached Sydney, or wherever it was she’d been working before. “I live with Eponine.”

He waits for something snide to come so that he can unleash some snark in his head and start to hate her. But Cosette’s face lights up as though he’s just mentioned her dearest friend in the world. “Oh, _Eponine_! She’s the absolute queen of the barre,” she exclaims. “And wasn’t she wonderful tonight?”

 Grantaire feels an iron grip on his elbow. Speak of the devil.

 But Eponine hardly seems to register Cosette at all. “R, have you seen Gavroche?”

 “Um -” He scans the room hurriedly. It’s not a huge place, and Gavroche isn’t the only kid there, but the gaggle of young ballet school girls there are all congregated in a booth, giggly and half-asleep, a couple of parents cornered in as human pillows.

 Just as real concern has begun to hammer him, however, he catches sight of her brother at the bar, just about in earshot. He points, silently.

 “What do you think you’re doing, kid?” The barman is asking, frowning down at Gavroche.

 “ _Mate_ ,” Gavroche says, settling a defiant elbow on the counter, “I’m getting a vodka for my wife.” He jerks his head behind him. Grantaire follows the helpless barman’s gaze towards the company’s very Russian and very middle-aged ballet mistress, and stifles his snort as best he can.

 Eponine cracks a smile, crumpling in relief. Somewhere amidst this Cosette has melted away to a different conversation, though when Grantaire spots her again she shoots him a hopeful thumbs-up.

  “So,” Eponine nudges him. “Go on then. The honest verdict. No holding back.”

 There is a chance she wants his judgement of Cosette, but Grantaire decides to congratulate her instead. He can’t overdo it, or she flat-out won’t believe it. “Thought you were on point. Feuilly seems to agree with you better than the last guy you had, what’s-his-name. You two were pretty great tonight, not even a slip-up on the old shoulder sit.” He nudges her back and she nods, pleased.

 “What did you make of _Apollo_?” She asks next.

 Grantaire knows she means the piece as a whole, but really, what else is there to say?

 “Oh, god.” He groans. “ _Him_.”

 “Right? He’s ridiculous.”

 “ _Ridiculous_ is an understatement.” Grantaire counters. Eponine rolls her eyes, as though she can sense the impending tirade. He carries on anyway. “I mean, way to overdo _everything_. He must have practiced every night in his sleep or something, that’s just not natural. Or he’s got some kind of built-in magnet in his core that forces everyone to be looking at him _all the time_. Christ, why haven’t you talked to him in class? I mean, I can _see_ why, but maybe he’s trained in some top-secret dance hypnotism. And the poor muses, you know? All that work put into their parts and their own families probably don’t remember that they were there. Like, who the hell does he think he is?”

 “Enjolras,” says a voice beside him. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

 Grantaire glances to his left in tortured slow-motion, the expression on Eponine’s face an entirely unhelpful confirmation. Sure enough, it’s him. _Enjolras_ , apparently. Enjolras doesn’t extend a hand. Grantaire doesn’t blame him.

 “Eponine,” Eponine offers crisply, when it becomes evident that Grantaire is still computing. Okay, but - who eavesdrops on conversations about them and then just decides to go up and _introduce_ themselves?

 “I think I’ve seen you in class,” Enjolras observes. There are a lot of dancers there, but she shrugs in probable confirmation. “Congratulations on tonight.”

 “We were just saying how good you were in Apollo,” she returns, which, technically, they _were_.

 Enjolras, for some totally strange and unknown reason, doesn’t seem to have interpreted it that way. “It’s fine,” he says. “I don’t mind hearing honest feedback.”

 “Okay.” Grantaire has come to life again. “Yeah, well, I thought you got that godly arrogance down pat,” he says dryly, “and we were just wondering whether you actually learned to play the lyre.”

 Enjolras just stares.

 Oh, how Grantaire loves every chance he gets to come crashing down in flames.

 “I mean, I suppose I have a couple of quibbles.” Made-up quibbles. No one in their right mind could have _quibbles_ with that fucking performance.

 “What are they?” Enjolras insists.

 Maybe the golden god has never been talked at like this before, or maybe that his tensed jaw is the only thing belying his utterly impassive expression is proof of his practice at receiving it. And maybe Grantaire’s just a complete shit (though no need for uncertainty there), but that only makes him want to try harder.

 “I saw a wobble in that arabesque, after the -” he illustrates the spinning section with a circling finger. “You were a little late to get up from your kneeling, with Terpsichore. And you have a thing,” he deadpans, “with one of your fingers. It likes to stick out.” It is with an awful kind of glee that, after his mimicry of someone sipping from a teacup, finger splayed out awkwardly, he catches Enjolras furtively glancing down at his own hand. (Okay, so, there’s nothing even wrong with his finger placement.)

 “And you are?” Enjolras challenges, when he meets Grantaire’s gaze again.

 “Enchanted to meet you,” he drawls.

 Eponine has been standing there in exasperated silence, merely lifting one of her eyebrows higher and higher, and any moment now it’s going to shoot right off her face.

 “You’re not a journalist, are you?” The other dancer queries, evidently bewildered.

 “Nope,” Grantaire says, perfectly satisfied to leave it there.

 “Of course he’s not,” Courf says, swanning into their conversation with dazzling aplomb. “R, I hear you’re _back_.”

 What?

 “Directing, though, right? Or is it choreographing?”

  _What_? He glares at Eponine, but she seems to have no clue where Courfeyrac has been getting his information either.

 “At the Arcadia, come on.”

 Fucking _Bahorel_.

 Eponine has opened her mouth, hopefully to shoot Courf down as bluntly as usual. Enjolras is suddenly surveying him even more curiously.

 “Oh, right.” Grantaire feigns. “Yeah, it’s - a bit of both, actually.”

  _What?_

 “Who for?” That’s Enjolras asking.

 Curse Grantaire and his over-exercised bullshitting faculties. “I’m freelancing, in fact.”

“Jesus, that’s awesome.” Courf declares. “Have you worked out what you’re doing, then?”  

Grantaire has considered what he’s doing for approximately two seconds, which is obviously a reasonable period of time in which to come up with a successful and original idea for a ballet. He’s decided he’s a genius, with an idea already on the tip of his tongue, but as he opens his mouth to impart it, he sees Enjolras’ expectant expression, and lets _Rickrolled_ : the Rick Astley parody ballet slide away for a rainy day. No. He’ll go for something more serious. Laudable, not laughable. Shock Apollo here with something classy. Class _ic_. Sure.

“Yeah. I’m adapting the _Iliad_.”

...Homer’s goddamn _Iliad_ , no sweat.

 Eponine tries to cover up the sound of choking. Courf, on the other hand, whistles, impressed. “Man, that could be so _cool_.”

 Enjolras is more sceptical. “Really?”

 “Yep.” Grantaire nods, and lets out a laugh at how calm he is staying in the midst of this nightmare. Possibly to stop himself crumpling over in this disbelieving laughter, he adds, offhand, “Auditions will probably be soon, if either of you have a little time for extra dancing.”

 “Let us know.” Courfeyrac is beaming. Enjolras doesn’t seem to know quite what to say.

 “Will do.”

Well, that went well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I've been insanely attached to ballet dancer!Grantaire since that Take Me To Church ballet video came out, so this had to happen eventually. I've drafted quite a lot of it so far thanks to NaNoWriMo, so I'm hoping to keep up regular-ish chapter updates (fingers crossed)! 
> 
> Thanks to Beanie [lazyisatalent](http://lazyisatalent.tumblr.com) for being my fic buddy and generally a bad influence, and to Laura [athenaeyes](http://athenaeyes.tumblr.com) for reading the drafts, cheering me on through November and for putting up with all my Nano whining, you're a saint. 
> 
> You can find me also at [darrenjolras](http://darrenjolras.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If last night was a bad dream, Grantaire hasn't woken up from it yet. He's barely _started_ this thing, and he's already in over his head.

He can’t look Eponine in the eye. 

“So, how much of that was already planned and how much was just testosterone-fuelled stupidity?” She asks, as she shuts the fridge. 

With a grunt, Grantaire arranges his arms on the kitchen counter and lets his forehead drop onto them in despair. 

From under his arm, he gets a sidelong view of Eponine’s smirk as she pulls out a spoon and starts on a yoghurt. “That much, huh.” 

He buries his face further into his makeshift pit of shame, before piping up, his voice muffled, “...okay, but it’s not like I actually need to  _ do _ it, though. They’re not idiots, they took it as a joke. I was definitely just kidding around. Or they might’ve already forgotten. Besides, I only see Courf and that lot once in a blue moon, so -”

“Courf’s already texted me twice this morning to tell me he doesn’t have your new number.” 

Dammit, Courf. “Well, don’t -” 

“Sorry, already sent it to him. Check your phone.”

“Traitor,” Grantaire reproaches, patting down his pockets for the damn thing. Hanging onto it precariously between two fingers, he twists it into view of his face to see five new messages, all from Courfeyrac, apparently. He squeezes his eyes shut so he can pretend they don’t exist, and puts it safely face down beside him.  

“What the actual fuck have I done?” Grantaire asks himself - not for the first time this morning - but this time he lifts his head enough to peer gloomily at his distorted reflection in the kettle, in the hope that maybe his bedhead will be hiding the answer.

“What the fuck  _ have _ you done?” Eponine agrees, all too cheerily, although she manages to lick her yoghurt spoon clean before breaking into a proper cackle. 

“I’ll... tell them the truth,” he muses. “That I changed my mind. Figured it was too much effort.” Because it  _ would _ be. Insane amounts of effort. Dancing is effort enough, learning a full ballet hard enough, never mind  _ creating _ one, putting anything together from scratch. There’s far too much to think about. Music, steps, story, and that’s just the start. Grantaire’s not even being pessimistic, to acknowledge that he is just not cut out for all that. 

“Sure,” Eponine says, shrugging. How wonderfully supportive. 

Grantaire straightens up, just so that he can throw up his hands in helplessness. “I already told Bahorel no anyway, so there’s no way I could do this crap, even if I wanted to,” he points out. 

“Sure,” she says, obviously refusing to be convinced. “Someone’s definitely bought up their place in the meantime, just to save your skin.”

He huffs. If only.

“Either way,  _ I’m  _ not disappointing Courf for you,” she adds, drumming her fingers on his phone. 

See... he doesn’t know why anyone would be surprised by this. Enjolras, for instance, doesn’t even  _ know _ him - has spent ten minutes tops in his company ever - and Grantaire is somehow certain that  _ he _ wouldn’t be surprised by this in the slightest. Whereas Bahorel and Courfeyrac, they’re his friends, after all (mad as they are, to still be friends with him of their own volition) so it goes without saying that they think too much of him.

Well, maybe he’ll do it just to show them there’s really no use in trying. He’ll hold their disappointment off until everything falls apart despite his best efforts, and then they will only be able to pity him for trying. 

And if he - by some miracle - doesn’t fail completely in this ridiculous endeavour... then, he supposes, that’ll show some other people.

Besides, he begrudges, the _Iliad_ _would_ make a pretty badass ballet. 

He exhales bitterly. “Bahorel’s going to regret this.” (Bahorel’s parents, too.)

Without the barest hint of surprise, Eponine snorts, tossing her yoghurt pot in the bin. “Bahorel doesn’t know the meaning of the word.” Probably true. 

“I  _ already _ regret this.” Grantaire admits, with a maniacal laugh. 

“You -” there’s a glint in her eye that almost hints at seriousness, but she breaks off and grins instead. “ _ You _ ,” she begins anew, slinging her bag over her shoulder, “are going to choreograph me an incredible part - and some other stuff too, I assume - but that alone will be worth it.”

Well, when she puts it like that. With the company still dragging their feet, it’s not a bad plan, really, to give her an opportunity to showcase her talent. If worst comes to worst, he can choreograph her a solo piece, a one-woman ballet. No doubt she’d be able to pull it off.

Grantaire’s laugh is slightly less insane this time. “Right you are, ma’am,” he returns, with an affected accent and a mock salute, as Eponine waves and disappears through the door.

It clunks shut again, and he stands there in the kitchen, thinking how weird it is that the phrase running through his head on a loop, news-ticker style,  _ what the actual fuck have I done _ , has already started to become a calming mantra.

_ What the fuck _ , inhale,  _ have I done _ , and exhale. Rinse, repeat.

  
  


Two days. He’s spent nearly forty-eight hours trying to process this bullshit, sort out the _Iliad_ : a new ballet. Making a conscious choice to be motivated, he has ransacked his bookshelves for his ratty old copy of the epic. He has tried to flip through it, to draw up a list of characters, to streamline events into scenes enough to compress twenty-four books - all 15,693 lines of them - into a couple of hours and something that can be contained on a stage. 

There have been old DVDs of ballet productions whirring in his disc drive all day, a constant stream of famous dancers and classic choreography. The closest to what he can envision is the Spartacus ballet, which, though obviously Roman rather than Greek, still feels like a closer cousin than the whole group of nineteenth century classics together. But even so, there’s so much more he could do. He could be braver with this. He doesn’t necessarily have to be limited to the most traditional ballet catalogue: he could bring in some contemporary stuff too, if he likes. The thing is - he can do  _ whatever _ he likes. He’s not bound by anyone’s rules. So there’s no need to be thwarted by expectations.

He scrolls through pages upon pages of google images and reads as much _ Iliad _ commentary as he can until he starts to think his problem isn’t even that he has no ideas, but that he has too many. 

‘Course, not a single one seems to hold when he actually attempts to put pencil to paper, so all he has to show for today are twenty-odd pages of scribbled-out notes.

So, instead, if Grantaire sticks on the movie  _ Troy _ \- well, sue him. 

After all, what problem can’t Brad Pitt’s heroic ass solve?

  
  


“Jesus, dude,” Bahorel says, “I’d tell you to hit your feelings, but if you go any harder tonight I’m not sure I won’t get my ribs broken.”  

Grantaire abruptly eases off the left hook he’d been about to throw and avoids Bahorel’s incoming blow instead, feeling appropriately guilted by that statement. Now that he’s been called out, it’s true: he’s been sloppy tonight, throwing all his weight behind his punches with all the power he possesses and utterly none of the finesse. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, pulling back into a pause to readjust his gloves and then trying for a more careful jab-jab-cross combination. Bahorel retaliates in kind, and it takes all of Grantaire’s concentration to deflect it: Bahorel has always been the better boxer of the two. (This is unsurprising, given boxing was always his thing to begin with.)

Grantaire supposes that it’s lucky for him that this accidental boxing habit has lasted, quietly outliving his ballet career, because if he were any more physically out of shape now than he currently is, there’d be no way back - attempting to choreograph any dance at all would be a fucking joke. 

He had only started coming, years and years ago, because one night Bahorel’s usual partner had bailed and so Grantaire had gotten dragged along, probably because he’d been recently ranting about the boxing class or two he’d taken in his youth. 

Which shouldn’t say much, because in his youth he took a class or two of nearly everything. Like, seriously. Everything.

When they had moved here from Italy - he and his father - neither of them had been in the best place. Grantaire only remembers flashes of school days back then, aged seven or eight, sitting restlessly at the back of classrooms, eyes never leaving the window while teachers talked, compulsively swinging a leg backwards and forwards under his desk or something until he was sent out for ‘quiet time’, even though, as he would always point out, he had never _ said  _ anything in the first place. And then a couple of years later, and he had started being farmed out to every after-school club in the book, had tried every hobby in the catalogue, as if he’d find his calling somewhere then. Swimming, pottery-making, horse-riding, knitting - the novelty of them all had curdled eventually; teachers would cite his incorrigible attitude, his insufficient attention span, and these assessments were worn like badges of pride. Of course, none of that had stopped his father shipping him off to activities, more and more of them, though they all fell flat, an endless chain of dominoes. Photography. Fencing. Boxing. Birdwatching, even - anything to have him out of the house. (Birdwatching club hadn’t lasted long, but Grantaire did get a thirty-page comic strip about chickens to show for that, so hey. He was a winner there.)

And ballet. He can hardly remember now, why ballet was the one thing he yielded to, the  _ one _ thing he actually stuck with. Sometimes he almost thinks he picked it to be deliberately contrary, for the look on his father’s face when he had finally realised where Grantaire was still going twice, often three times a week. He remembers it well, that dismay and disbelief, the unsaid,  _ ‘that’s not what I had in mind _ ’. Of all the things, and he had chosen ballet.

But was he really so cynical, even as a kid? Maybe it had been innocent, a sincere and selfish reason from the start. Maybe it was because he was  _ good _ at it, honestly good - good in a way that eventually forced him to give up the pretence of messing up, of not bothering to try. Even when he had been slow and surly and undeserving, the dance teacher would compliment his turnout, would point him out to the rest of the class for exemplary technique, trill his praises for grasping an exercise so quickly. Numbers of students would dwindle with every passing grade, but for some reason Grantaire had barely noticed them go. And there were days back then, too, where he would wish that he could stay there forever, would dawdle in packing up his black slippers and and sneak in one last pirouette on the way to the door. 

But, he supposes, even ballet didn’t really last.

“You  _ could  _ say I have a legitimate reason to want to break a rib or too, though, you know,” Grantaire jokes, but he can feel an unpleasant frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. He bites it back, blocks a hit and lines up a right uppercut before he gets out, “gossiping to Courf of all people, really?”

Courfeyrac has many qualities, but keeping his mouth shut is absolutely not one of them. (Grantaire suffers from the same shortcoming - uh, this whole mess he’s in is well enough proof of that - so he feels he’s got a natural talent for recognising it in others.) 

“Huh?” Bahorel returns, pulling a face in apparent bemusement. “What about Courf?” 

He stares. “He came at me about directing and choreographing, and all that, as if I’d -”

Grantaire breaks off as he lands an awkward hit to the stomach, because Bahorel has suddenly dropped both his fists in order to channel all of his energy into an exaggerated groan. Grantaire winces. 

“Hey! I told him  _ might _ , that I’d offered and that you  _ might _ -” 

Okay, so he knows his irritation with Bahorel is misplaced. 

“Don’t tell me you blame me for Courf getting over-excited.” Bahorel adds. “It’s  _ Courfeyrac _ .”

And yeah, he can’t even really be angry about Courf. In spite of his bitterness, Grantaire can’t help but laugh at the truth of that. “Nah, sorry. You’re right. Not your fault.”

“But you set him straight, right? ‘Cause you’re not doing it though, are you?” 

No, Grantaire knows exactly what this irritation is, and he might as well admit it. He’s mad at his own damn self, and even madder for now having to say, “I’m not - I  _ wasn’t _ , but, uh, about that... If I were to have hypothetically changed my mind, would the offer still stand? Not for the money, but -”

Bahorel doesn’t meet his eyes, but lands a delighted hook in Grantaire’s gut that leaves him dizzy and doubled over, fighting an outbreak of coughing. “Dude, of course.”

Well, that’s fortunate. 

He straightens up, and at last he is grinning (albeit ruefully). “Okay, well.”

“What made you change your mind?” 

“Oh... I had an idea I just couldn’t pass up.”

They pick up the pace after that, and are both breathing too heavily to make much conversation. Bahorel blocks every move Grantaire tries, so when they wrap it up fifteen minutes later, he is sore all over, pulling off the gloves with the dregs of energy he has left. As they’re both packing up, Bahorel brings up the ballet thing one more time. 

“Hey, if you need any help - I’m here.” Bahorel grins. “Non-dancing help, obviously.”

Grantaire snickers. “I guess I’ll let you know.”

  
  


Although the evening air has cooled and he catches a bus most of the way back, Grantaire gets home to the flat still in a haze of sweat. As he traipses up the stairs, lit only by a bare dangling bulb at each floor, his only feeling is the pure anticipation of throwing himself into the shower. When he lets himself in, though, he can already hear the water running. Eponine; Gavroche’s light in the tiny third bedroom is already out.

He slings his sports bag through the open doorway of his room, where it lands on the threadbare sofa they shoved in there when they’d first moved here. It shrinks an already small room, but it’s cool: it left them the living room bare like they’d wanted, and Grantaire doesn’t even have to see the dubious stains in the faded brown velour, since it has had the honour of becoming a perpetual dumping ground. The half-zipped sports bag lands precariously atop of a heap of t-shirts that aren’t-quite-dirty-enough and a couple of loose newspaper pages full of doodles in the margins and unfinished sudoku puzzles. (So, yeah, he’s one of those people who still likes to fail at sudoku sometimes.) 

If  Grantaire goes a step closer to his room, he’ll be horizontal on that bed before anyone can blink, and if he goes down, he’ll be out for the count. Instead - the splutter of the shower almost soothing in the background - he flicks on the light to the living room and sinks to the floor, cross-legged. 

The mirrors give it a bit of a junk shop feel, chop the sparse room up into a cubist composition. Sometimes he likes watching Eponine practise in here, just to see the kaleidoscope effect of her pirouettes, tracing her lines of movement and the turn of her head. 

Grantaire’s reflection looks back at him, almost perplexed. He glances down, wiggling his fingers experimentally in amongst a sliver of reflected light. He’s used to seeing himself in the mirror. _ Used _ to be used to seeing himself in the mirror, in every state. Wan-faced but freshly stretched in the mornings. Wrecked and panting, warmed up and unravelled. Practically on another plane, the split-second of leaps so high that for an instant he can’t see the reflection of the floor. Lines and sinews, his neck stretched out, head always inclined towards his own gaze, his most critical audience. People can get away with a lot in a performance, comparatively, in the fervour of stage lighting and a full orchestra, whereas in classes, in bright daylight, everyone sees everything. And even if they don’t - even if mistakes can be corrected, and if it doesn’t matter if not everything is perfect because it can all be done and redone - the mirror still catches everything, spits your own mistakes back at you like ricocheting darts, mistakes that burrow under your skin and gnaw at you from the inside. 

He’s never much liked that asshole in the mirror. He lifts his fingers a little further, taunting himself, curves his arm up in one half of a fifth port de bras position, lets it hang there for a moment. With his other hand, he pushes his hair out of his eyes - he hasn’t cut it in a while, so it’s shaggy and dark, falling over his face in unkempt curls - and then allows his other arm to join the first. Of their own accord, they fall to an open second, and when he sweeps them to a third arabesque position, he’s made it onto a knee, springs up onto two feet. From here, he goes into a full arabesque, and in the mirror he sees a row of Greek soldiers, poised and alert. Despite the protests of his leaden legs, he chassés forwards into a développé, a tombé tourné - and pauses. He shrugs off the hoodie and trackpants, kicks them carelessly to a corner, stares at himself in the mirror again for a moment, in a sweat-soaked tank top and ragged old shorts, bare-armed and legged and footed. 

But then he starts moving again, and he can  _ see _ it, really see it. He tests the waters with half-formed actions, feigning little jumps, petits jetés, all in the same square foot of floor - and then he breaks out of that box, is circling the room and spinning ferociously and thinking to himself that  _ this _ is an Achilles move, and this is more Helen, this is Hector’s - here is Agamemnon’s aggression, energy rammed into the floor and into sharp, staccato lines, whereas Achilles flows, is fast and fleeting, and the gods are different again, every action grander and deliberate... 

He isn’t thinking ahead, doesn’t know where one step will lead him to the next. They just materialise, seep out of unconsciousness, and the longer he lets them do so, the faster the torrent they rush out in, utterly detached from his mind and his mirror-vision. He should be writing this shit down, Grantaire realises, as he tries to catch his breath after a sequence of jumps, but as soon as he considers that, the illusion snaps. Another wave of tiredness engulfs him; his feet drag again. He tries more consciously to beat back against the sluggishness, but no, it’s gone, his body is having none of it. He feels only half-lucid as well, chest clenched tight at the chance that all these ideas will scatter and blow away in the night, and he’ll have forgotten them, will be scrabbling in vain for scraps of them by morning. But - if he thinks of Achilles, flashes of dancing unfold in his head as though they are already a conditioned response. Not all of it, perhaps, but if the rest doesn’t stick, then the rest is somehow - wrong, wrong enough that he can let it fall away. 

The flat is quiet. The shower is no longer running. He peers in: the bathroom door has been left ajar, but the light’s off, and most of the mist on the glass has already evaporated. 

  
  


“So what exactly are you doing about music?” Eponine asks, as Grantaire jostles the theatre keys in the lock.

“Courf told me that he’s got a composer friend - who’s freelancing right now, and in between projects, apparently - who might be interested, so I’ve asked him.”

“Oh, who’s that?” 

“Uh, Combeferre?” He thinks. 

“Oh, Ferre,” Eponine acknowledges, with a lot more recognition than Grantaire has. “He put together the score for that piece in the mixed programme last year? You remember.”

Grantaire  _ kind _ of does, so he shrugs. 

“He’s a weirdo.” She adds brightly, and suddenly she’s narrowing her eyes at him, sizing him up. She snickers. “Yeah. The two of you’ll get along.” 

“Thanks,” Grantaire offers sarcastically, but he can’t say he doesn’t feel a pinch of relief to hear it. He finally figures out which key works - the big brass one slides into this lock, at least - and cracks the door open. Slinging his bag back over his shoulder, he gestures Eponine on, and follows her in. 

The Arcadia’s foyer is carpeted but otherwise utterly bare, all the furniture - the box office that might have been there - already ripped out, leaving shabby walls, two sets of stairs that must curve up to the circle seats, and two more arched hallways connecting off from it. Grantaire pulls the door up behind them and looks for a light switch. He finds it and flicks it, but only then does he realise none of the ceiling lights in here have bulbs. 

Exhaling, he leads the way down the dimly-lit right-hand hallway, a sort of cocoon of red velvet plush, and peers cautiously ahead. 

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Eponine remarks from his side, and he can’t tell if it is sarcasm or awe that has won out. It’s no small building the Bahorels have got here, regardless of how unassuming the front facade of it is. In fact, Grantaire realises, as he treads further through the doors to the auditorium and finds himself at the back of the stalls, compared to what he’s been envisioning, it’s practically monumental. Some of the seats themselves are missing, but he counts the rows as he ventures down the aisle. Maths is by no means his forte, but his estimation of the theatre’s capacity makes him let out another heavy breath. Christ.

The orchestra pit - he peers into it - is a thin semi-circle, modest in size, but fairly decent. Grantaire skirts around the edge of it to get to a stepped platform at the side that reaches the stage itself, and clambers up. Little clouds of dust roll up into the air under his feet as he moves, but, thankfully, he doesn’t think the stage floor is going to fall through. (He bounces on the balls of his feet to test that theory.) Could use a quick sweep, first, he tells himself - luckily, towards the back there’s a cluttered heap of junk, and he can see a broom in the pile. Glancing over his shoulder, he notices that Eponine has disappeared, but as he’s about eighty percent sure that she hasn’t been abducted by a theatre troll that lurks under the seats or something, he doesn’t worry too much, just turns his attention back to the mound. The broom is wedged in haphazardly between a sink and a wooden contraption that Grantaire can’t identify, and as he places a hand on the broom he feels the whole structure wobble. Okay, that’s okay. He gives it a more gentle twist. This is just a giant game of Jenga, a more daring version of pick-up sticks. If he can just inch it out, carefully - 

The stage floods with searing white light, and, blinking in shock, Grantaire accidentally jerks the broom out of place. It’s like an earthquake has struck, like an avalanche has been triggered. He leaps backwards as the whole mountain gives way, six tonnes of stuff tumbling to the floor with an almighty crash. 

But at least the spotlight works. Shading his eyes with his hand before he turns into the light, he gestures frantically for Eponine to turn it down. She evidently gets the message, because suddenly he can see again without his eyes watering. “Thanks for that,” he yells up into the box, his voice echoing out across the room. 

Well, at least the broom’s free. And  _ that _ , he thinks, looking at what looks a bit like a cheap wooden bed frame, he could drag out downstage as a barre for today. Although it looks heavy, it slides out without effort. Awesome. 

With Eponine’s help, once she’s appeared again (and her unrepentant grin isn’t nearly as hidden as she thinks it is), they manage, by shoving everything into the wings, to clear and clean up the stage before anyone arrives.    

He even manages to triple-check that he’s hooked up his music, to roll up his tracksuit bottoms off his ankles, pull on a pair of slippers and do a couple of warm-up exercises himself before anyone comes. Now that there’s nothing left he can possibly do, he starts pacing up and down the stage. 

Eponine, meanwhile, is readjusting the straps of her leotard with enviable languor, but when she catches him staring, she raises an interrogative eyebrow at him. 

“Well, let’s goddamn hope people turn up today,” he says to her, chewing on his tongue as he looks around and imagining having to fill this whole stage and an audience by himself. “As great as a one-man _ Iliad  _ would be -”

“ _ Two _ . Two person _ Iliad _ . Chill, R. People will show up. I passed out the audition fliers to practically everyone I know, and you know I know a lot of people. I even forwarded the email around for you, too.  _ Plus, _ ” Eponine continues, with a unpitying stare that dares him to contradict her, “you’ve got Courf on the case. The guy is a walking advertisement for you.” 

It’s true. “He’s probably told his pilates instructor to audition,” Grantaire admits, and it’s only partly a joke.

“He’s definitely told his postman.” 

“His old lady neighbour, the one with the monster cat.” 

“His first ballet teacher.”

“His twelve-year-old Colombian cousins.” 

“That barista he flirts with.” 

“Christ, yeah.” Well, maybe Courf’s inability to keep his mouth shut has its advantages, after all.

They start up again, a sort of game to see who’ll run out of ideas first, and Grantaire is just wracking his brains for the name of Courfeyrac’s crazy great-uncle when the first person actually shows up. People actually show up, plural. It’s Feuilly, Courf himself, and with them a gangly guy whom Grantaire can tell is Marius just by the way Eponine falters in the middle of her sentence. 

He has barely said his hellos to them when the next set of people file in, some faces he recognises and some he doesn’t. And that’s apparently not the end of them: there’s a whole current of people arriving. They keep coming, as if a dam has broken somewhere beyond the doors. Grantaire can’t tell if this is making him relieved or anxious.

But then he spots another familiar face, and breaks into a proper grin. “Jehan!” He cries, clasping them by the shoulders in delight. “You came!” (Does he care that he’s showing blatant favouritism before the auditions have even begun? Not. A. Bit.) 

Jehan’s lips waver into a grin. “Well, you know. I weighed up my options, and it was either another day of fiddling with the same issue we’ve been working on for a month and watching the editorial manager break the printer five times a day, or sneaking off to do some dancing instead.” Jehan works for an indie poetry magazine these days. “Also, I don’t know why you sound so surprised, since I don’t know who else it would have been leaving me threatening voicemails.” 

“I don’t know who that could  _ possibly _ have been,” Grantaire agrees primly. 

“I suppose it was one of my many international enemies,” they sigh, as they wander off to slip their ballet shoes on. “Don’t worry, I’ll get MI5 on the case.” 

Floreal and Irma Boissy, two dancers Grantaire knew through ballet school (he and Boissy had an especially tumultuous year of partnering in their pas de deux class) and who joined the company corps the same year he did, show up at the same time, and they’re followed by a cluster of younger dancers.   

Terpsichore - Cosette - comes in alone, with a hesitant smile. Grantaire glances over his shoulder - Eponine’s busy talking to Marius - and then gives Cosette a wave. She comes over to say hello, and then makes her way over to set her bag by Floreal’s, though the other women’s conversation dies practically as soon as she gets there.

When Grantaire looks back, someone else is approaching him. A little bit of him dies inside.

“Hi,” Enjolras says, his expression inscrutable, extending his hand. 

_ Oh _ , so Grantaire gets a handshake this time, he thinks, and maybe the snideness is showing on his face, because, as if Enjolras has heard him, he adds politely, “we weren’t, er, properly introduced last time.”

“You’re Enjolras,” Grantaire says, raising an eyebrow pointedly. 

Enjolras gets tight-lipped, but otherwise doesn’t react. “And you’re Grantaire,” he returns simply. “You didn’t say.”

What difference does it make, though, really? 

“Maintaining that aura of mystery is everything to me,” Grantaire deadpans. 

But the truth is, most people who’ve been around in ballet remember him. Apparently notoriety isn’t so fond of fading. He can see it - all the more clearly in how closed off he is, how cool and controlled - that Enjolras knows a lot more now about Grantaire than his name. Of course. That’s obviously why he’s come to these auditions, to gawk, to be a little scathing in return. To have a little vengeance. 

Suit himself. A little scorn’s nothing new. “So, back for more advice?” Grantaire adds sardonically, before Enjolras can say anything else. When this question is received with confusion, he clarifies. “Sorted out your finger problem?” 

Enjolras looks as though he might be chewing off his tongue to stop himself from answering, but whatever he is doing, he’s succeeding, because all he does is turn on his heel and march off to warm up.

 

When it looks like everyone who is coming has arrived, they arrange themselves across the stage so everyone is holding onto something suitably barre-like (some of them have had to drag on extra chairs). Not unlike the auditions they’re all used to, he stands at the front to run through an invented class. He demonstrates some short combinations for their barre exercises, throwing in some pliés and a port des bras, some battement frappés and a fondu or two between a horrible sequence of ronds de jambe en l’air. (It occurs to him once more, as he demonstrates these and then watches everyone else’s control and technique as they circle their legs from front to back around them, that he is  _ drastically _ out of practice.) 

Less like proper auditions, though, is that Grantaire is trying to cultivate no semblance of formality on this stage: he has enough war flashbacks of those endless auditions and exams, thanks. So he wants nothing more than to be laidback about today, just as he presumes the people here are fairly laidback about this, since - for once - their entire futures aren’t riding on their performance. There’s no pressure, and equally little reward for them. It’s a little extracurricular, a chance to stretch themselves during their downtime or to keep fit in their holidays. So this is casual, and that is fine. 

For instance, people are chatting a little between exercises, and Grantaire doesn’t mind. He’s making stupid jokes as well. But, just as he finishes a demonstration of the next combination, he hears a couple of the dancers leaning in towards each other over the barre, muttering. It’s the furtive look they shoot him that first makes him uneasy, but he brushes it off, and turns away to check the music for the next exercise. A natural hush falls over the room in anticipation of the music, but not them - they only get louder. There’s nothing else to swallow up their stage-whispers.

“ - damn, you were right, he’s really let himself go -”

“Well, don’t you remember? One of the best companies in the world isn’t good enough for him, specially-created principal roles weren’t good enough for him, five star reviews weren’t good enough for him -” 

“That’s probably why he’s stuck doing this. I mean, _ I _  wouldn’t take him back after his last tantrum.”

“Honestly, who would?” 

“Good question,” Grantaire says loudly, pointing at the two of them like they’ve hit on something important. Neither of them are familiar to him. He barks out a laugh. “Who knows? I can’t tell you that. I also  _ couldn’t care less. _ But if that’s why you’re here - if that’s what you’re interested in, sussing out  _ my _ prospects,” he adds to the whole room with an acrid smile, “- that’s sweet of you, but I’ll say it now, you’re going to be disappointed.”

His stare rakes the rest of the assembled dancers, afraid to linger on anyone too long lest he learn just how many of them are only here to make sure he is appropriately pilloried for his past. He glances up at the ceiling, waiting for the tomatoes to hit him. 

“Yeah, but how do we know that you’re not just going to walk out on this halfway through?” The first one says, too loudly.

There’s an uncomfortable silence. Grantaire looks back down.

“You fucking don’t,” he offers, which he realises is not the most encouraging response. “I’m not going to stand here and promise anything. I could spout out an elaborate speech for you all, but what’s the point? What’s my word worth? At the end of the day, you’d still have to trust me on this.” He shrugs uselessly. “But you showed up today of your own free will. You either want to be a part of the project or you don’t.”

There’s no going back from that: the mutinous pair exchange a glance and desert the barre. One of them tosses him a jeering wave as they grab their bags and stalk out. 

A couple of the younger dancers follow suit.  _ Wow. _ This has got to be a new record for a project bombing out. This’ll be one for the photo album, a frenzy for the arts journalism sector once rumour gets out that he  _ tried _ . Tried, and failed, faster than he thought he ever would. He didn’t even make it to the first rehearsal.

He supposes the universe is telling him not to get his hopes up here. 

“Is that everyone?” He sees a few people twitch, debating whether to stay or go. He’ll count down a few more silent seconds, give them an extra minute - 

“Some of us are here to dance,” a voice affirms loftily. 

It’s Enjolras. 

As if that is the end of the discussion, he adjusts his position at the barre, placing a hand lightly upon it and standing in a tight fifth in preparation. 

The rest of them follow suit. 

Grantaire blinks, but he doesn’t protest. 

 

By the end of the barre and a few centre exercises, the altercation feels quite far away already. If that  _ was _ a sign from the universe, maybe it’s one he’ll be able to get away with disregarding for a while. In any case, he draws the class to a close: that’s all well and good. But there’s still a little time for a curveball. 

“And now,” Grantaire explains, when everyone has drifted back into the centre of the stage, taking a water break or stretching their hamstrings again, “you’re in for a Grantaire special.” He waggles his eyebrows, and most of them break out into a laugh. (Although, among the smirks are a few fleeting looks of trepidation, which - fair enough.) 

He interlaces his fingers and flexes his hands in a stretch, thinking about how to arrange them. “If you all hang back towards the wings, along both sides there and there,” he decides, “I’m going to put on some music, and everyone’s going to improvise some solos. You can even improvise as a pair, too, if you’re brave.They can be any ballet style, basically anything, as classical or modern as you feel like - I just want to see your natural style, more than anything.” That, and how well they take a new thing thrown at them, given Grantaire’s assuming that’s what they will all have to put up in every rehearsal session for the  _ Iliad _ . If he can rope in the dancers who are adaptable, who can cope with that, who don’t mind getting to experiment and improvise every once in awhile, he might actually have a fair shot at doing this.  

“Think of it like - like those improv games on shows,  _ Mock The Week _ or  _ Whose Line Is It Anyway?  _ or whatever; when you hear a section of music that grabs you, take a turn and come out to centre-stage and do your thing, and then let someone else have it. Yeah. All good?” 

The rest of them murmur their consent.

He pauses to fiddle with the speaker system, sorting out the mix he’s got already. This isn’t  _ exactly _ something new for him: while he’s never put on auditions, he did get into the habit of impromptu  _ Grantaire specials  _ back in the day, squeezing in a little improvised solo or two between classes by sticking his ipod on shuffle, or toeing the line by doing the same very, very quietly backstage of performances to warm up or pass the time. (He’d gotten a warning or two for this, but a couple of his friends had seemed to get a kick out of it.) Not many of the people here were probably around to remember it - Courf, Floreal, Irma. Jehan, maybe, if they've seen Grantaire muck around outside of the company studios. 

He grabs the remote again to be ready to press play. “And by Grantaire special,” he adds, spinning to face them again as he reaches the bottom of the stage, about to cue the music, “of course I mean a Freddie Mercury special.”  

The first bars of Under Pressure blare out. The atmosphere changes as it clicks in people’s minds, as people start to recognise it. Some of them are chuckling. 

Eponine takes advantage of everyone else’s disorientation to glide out first en couru, taking up the space in the centre with a crisp arabesque. She falls in with the melody in a series of baloncés to the side, punctuating her turns and spins with bracingly high grands battements. Eventually, another dancer claims her space, and another after that. 

Feuilly surprises everyone by smoothly flipping from classical ballet to full-on hip hop moves halfway through Another One Bites The Dust, and Irma Boissy does some incredible piqués to one of the choruses of Don’t Stop Me Now, bang on the beat every time. Courf shimmies on, and after some ballonés and assemblé jumps, he launches into some salsa moves that have everyone hooting in glee. A couple of other auditionees edge forwards as if they’re about to take a turn, but Courfeyrac really  _ won’t  _ be stopped, not until Feuilly drags him off. Upon his forced retreat, however, Courf grabs Marius by the hand and spins him out into the centre, leaving him to finish Somebody To Love. Marius is not nearly as suave in this improvisation, but he nonetheless has a peculiar charm, and he does a mean grand jeté. Once he begins looking a little lost again, Cosette graciously comes on to rescue him at the end of it.

The beginning of The Show Must Go On feels darker than most of the songs on Grantaire’s mix, but Enjolras has stepped out and is tackling this exercise with palpable seriousness. His head is held up, maintaining perfect classical alignment, but he’s looking outwards and upwards, past them all. The internal conflict of the song... he actually tells a story. Plays it out in his movements, creating tension in every line he makes. His steps, though technically excellent, are laced with a resentment that leaves Grantaire dry in the mouth just from watching. He ends on a series of fouettés, pulling his leg in to tighten into a pirouette, and steps back out. 

Montparnasse fills the void by taking on Killer Queen, and that it itself is a triumph, but when it fades out to I Want It All, he beckons Floreal on, and the two of them conduct the most rock and roll improvised pas de deux Grantaire’s seen in all his life. 

Jehan starts off Bohemian Rhapsody in breathtakingly slow motion, and while there’s a little jostling at the sides - people thinking about stepping in - no one actually does, so Jehan simply carries on for the whole song, their moves often abstract but always varied, changing character with every turn of the music, a stylistic chameleon. (By the end, the rest of them are making little cameos: it’s become a ludicrously silly ensemble piece, and half of them end up collapsed on the floor.) 

Once everyone’s had a few goes, Grantaire throws in a few steps of his own on his way to turn off the music. Like a composer, he makes a dramatic motion cutting off the exercise, and shoots them all a thumbs up in congratulations. “I think that’s as good a wrap as anything,” he declares, grinning ear-from-ear. “I hope that wasn’t hell. Anyway, you’ll all hear from me soon. Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I really appreciate the kudos and feedback! 
> 
> You also have my word that from the next chapter onwards this fic will definitely be heavier on the Enjolras! ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire and Eponine attempt to cast the show, and there's an eventful evening at the pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Minor warnings for implied homophobia/racism/douchebaggery and a little violence towards the end.)

“I don’t get it, why’d they all turn _up_?” Grantaire says again, befuddled. That is, notwithstanding the cluster of them who only came to jeer, as if he is the lead character of a Greek tragedy, as if his name and the calamitous end of his career are all he has left to cling to. (In return, he does take a voracious amount of pleasure in balling up their audition forms.)

“Because obviously no one can find anything better to do with their time off this year, so we’re all stuck with you,” Eponine answers, flicking a mushroom out of her chow mein. It lands on Grantaire’s knee, and he tosses it into his own meal, thinking, _ah_ . She’s good at this, being reassuring by apparently not caring at all. She has rolled her eyes as if she is only joking, but there _is_ always a chance that that case is true - and Grantaire finds himself hoping, fervently, that it is.  

Sometimes there _is_ nothing going when the holidays, the off-season or audition season come around. If there is a total drought - if the well of opportunity has dried up - people are left to traverse greater distances looking for something to sustain them, flocking to greener pastures or new companies.

Other years, there are roles to go around - say five top choreographers who all happen to be working in the same city one year - and then there is the problem of having too many choices, and not enough time to devote to them all. On the other hand, some people take the time off when they can get it simply as a well-earned break, a couple of weeks they have probably needed for a good long while to actually recover from injuries that they have been dealing with in the meantime, just about scraping by (but no more than that, because without rest nothing heals properly, it only scabs over or settles down for long enough to see through another month or two.) For some, any time off is time that must be spent relentlessly, dancing for every company that will see them, auditioning and auditioning to try and have somewhere to _be_ for the coming year. It might be the insecurity that is worst. It is a fear that grips most of them. Grantaire remembers nearly everyone he used to know suffering under the dread of the day their company contracts wouldn’t be renewed, that in all their searching they would find nowhere else to take them, that that would be the end of their ambitions. That they would be cast aside so carelessly, and have to drift off alone, lost and anchorless and free.

If Eponine ever feels this fear, it must be the kind that chews her up from the inside, because mostly, outwardly, she is removed and matter-of-fact, one of the ones who grits her teeth and gets on with it no matter what. She’s faced insecurity before: she has been hounded by uncertainty and instability since the day she decided she was going to dance. It is a time before Grantaire knew her, and she doesn’t share much of it. But he can’t help himself from meditating on what it would have been like for her, trying to batter down doors that kept closing in her face, constantly circled by those shadowy hyenas: serious funding difficulties; systemic discrimination; an uncooperative, ungenerous family.

It’s not like people don’t know what they’re getting into, going into ballet as a profession. It doesn’t exactly possess much of a reputation for being a welcoming environment, an accessible path, as mired in all its past and traditions as it is. It’s only for a few, it’s only for the best. You can train your whole life, sacrifice everything you have, and still not make it. It can swallow you up and spit you back out with new beliefs: _you’re not good enough, you’re not meant for this, you don’t belong here_. But Eponine is fucking determined, and he wants nothing more than for her to conquer it all.

But it’s no wonder that _he_ has often been painted as an arrogant bastard, a spoilt brat, hypocritical and temperamental: Grantaire doesn’t blame them for colouring by numbers, by what the facts say. The most ungrateful sod there is, it’s not hard to see. What obstacles did he face to get where he wanted to be, what hardships? He knows the answer to that, and it’s that he was lucky, that the stars aligned for him. Opportunities practically _threw_ themselves in his path, and he was carried along in a current not even of his own making. Just leading him right in the direction he had - and he can’t pretend otherwise, because he had - always wanted to go.

However it happened, Grantaire hadn’t had the chance to fear insecurity. But at times it had almost gone further than that, because, eventually... he had _wanted_ to. Something inside him had twisted, and from then on, he would have welcomed the peril of it. The risk of not always knowing what was next, of not having people pulling him this way and that - people who had already mapped out his future, their picture of it polished and pristine and predestined.

What has always been most amusing to Grantaire is how triumphant so many people were when they saw the back of him so abruptly, as though he had always deserved such an end, as though they had known all along that one day he would snap. It seemed like the whole world had seen it coming and the whole world had been glad to see him go.

But the world has plenty of bigger problems than Grantaire’s self-destruction, and there’s also a chance that not _everyone_ holds him in such contempt, if the lists of names he still has in front of him are any hopeful indication.

“Oh man, Feuilly’s from Egypt?” He reads out to Eponine, scanning one of the audition forms. “How did I not know that?”

“Yeah, he literally grew up there,” she says, peering over. Like Eponine, he’s only two years younger than Grantaire, but joined the company here a few years after he’d already left, so Eponine knows him better. “And probably because the two of you have had more conversations about Formula 1 or fucking quinoa than, like, yourselves. Every time you see each other you’re always on about something strange.” She scrunches up her nose. “The next time he hangs out with you in the kitchen, you should try touching on the basics.”

“Didn’t you know men can’t talk to each other about anything other than cars or sports?” Grantaire drawls sarcastically. “Or quinoa?”

Eponine snorts. “Hey, but you should see him and your golden boy together. I don’t even _know_ what they talk about - waxing poetic about correct alignment, probably - but they both go off in crazy fast French all the time, standing there all googly-eyed at each other.”

Grantaire wrinkles his nose defensively at the first part of that sentence, at that ‘your’, pretending to be more interested in the form than her not-so-subtle attempts to rile him up over his... whatever this is. (Whatever it is, it’s clearly also Not Subtle.)

In actual interest, he reads that Feuilly trained at the Cairo Opera, then with the Iranian National Ballet Company, and then workshopped in Russia for a year. Damn, that isn’t bad. Feuilly could be a sensible choice for any part in the _Iliad_ , but Grantaire thinks he knows where he wants to place him. “Hector,” he declares.

Some of them are trickier to cast. He nearly puts Courfeyrac down for half the characters. His first thought is Paris, the pseudo-romantic lead, he supposes, but although Paris seduces - or kidnaps, depending on the version of the myth - Helen, he doesn’t really match up to Courfeyrac’s bravura. Marius has a better charm to suit that, and a better leaning towards adagio than Courfeyrac’s ebullient style. So, for Courf, one of the gods, maybe? He’s got an imposing stature, too, which would see him in good stead for one of the real warriors of the piece - Diomedes, or Ajax - but ultimately, his expressiveness clinches it. There is a particular sort of demonstrativeness and grandeur to his gestures in his dance, and whether he’s cultivated it or it just comes naturally, he draws the eye so readily that he’s the kind of guy who could have accidentally ended up as an actor instead of a dancer. “Courf for Agamemnon,” he announces, pausing before he writes it down to give Eponine time to protest if she feels like it. “That dude works as Menelaus, then,” he adds, waving another dancer’s form at her, “and Montparnasse can go down as Diomedes, he can go wild with Book 5.” He would have been pretty enough for Paris, but as Diomedes he’ll be able to be vicious. “Pontmercy is Paris.”

He sorts through the next few forms, grateful that everyone is more organised than he is and able to give him not only record of their experience but of their upcoming availability, because this is also proving to be a scheduling nightmare.

“Have you picked who you want to be yet?” He prods, once her fork is scraping forlornly around in the aluminium takeaway container. Grantaire has no intention of assigning Eponine something himself when she can just as well pick what sort of thing she wants to do, and she’ll nail anything he gives her. If she weren’t forcing him to sit down and do this right now, he is doubtful about whether he would actually get around to casting his own ballet at all, so.

“Have you picked who _you_ want to be?” She returns.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, off the cuff. “I’ll be Odysseus.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, ever more convinced as he thinks it over. “Like, on a practical level, he’s not going to be in it a whole lot, because the Trojan war’s not his part of the story, which is good for me, ‘cause I’m not doing this to dance, you know? I’m only choreographing, really. Odysseus is _there_ , he crops up now and again, which is fine, but he’s definitely a supporting role. On the other hand, he _is_ the mastermind behind a lot of the stuff that goes down in the war, and I guess you could say that _I’m_ -” Grantaire’s grinning, mostly because calling himself the mastermind behind this ballet makes him sound one hell of a lot more in control than he feels. Eponine just shakes her head, though she’s smirking back.

“Plus, he’s motherfucking Sean Bean,” he adds, which is always a bonus.

She waves her fork at him in agreement. “Sean Bean who actually _survived_ that time, that is special.” She nudges the cast-list-in-progress around to examine it more closely, and then announces, “I’ll be Athena, I guess.”

“Sure,” Grantaire grins. “Nothing less than a goddess, I get it.”

She mimes a kick at him in answer. “I take it she’ll get some cool stuff to do?”

“Yes, ma’am. She keeps having to show up to help the Greeks, so she’s usually either there to sort out the petty man-squabbles and protect her favourites, or to stir shit up with the actual war,” he describes.

“Hm, I like her. Just keeping it real.”

“Hey, if you’re Athena, do you reckon you could also manage Andromache? There are so many characters in this damn thing, so I might have to have people doubling up as gods and mortals. Plus Andromache will only really have an important scene with Hector, and you and Feuilly already know you can partner well.”

“No problem.”

“Awesome.”

So for the rest of the main female parts, he puts Floreal down for Briseis (and possibly as Hera, too), Cosette as Thetis, and Irma as Helen. He fires off a text to Jehan to double check whose part they would be more comfortable with, but Jehan doesn’t seem to mind, so in the end they get put down for Patroclus and Aphrodite, both as non-binary roles.

He rifles through the papers again, searching for who he has missed. He jots down a few more names - and despite the endless roster the _Iliad_ offers, he’s actually come up decently in numbers, with more than a few younger company members (and some dancers who didn’t get accepted in the first place) willing to do bit parts or volunteer in the corps just for a little extra experience - and then catches sight of Enjolras’ name on a form. Pulling it out of the pile, he feels a twinge of guilt at this turn of events, because there is a knowing voice in his head smarmily informing him that he has orchestrated this plot so that Enjolras’ form was buried towards the bottom, and even now one particular role has been left wide open for him. Subconsciously.

Is he _really_ that bad?

Reluctantly, he casts a furtive look down at the notes on Enjolras’ career, tracing that accelerated rise. A stellar record straight through the Paris Opera Ballet School, and then recruited right into the Paris Opera Ballet itself, evidently one of the few to pass the annual competitions off the bat and have that head start to climbing the company’s hierarchy. And then an offer from the company here, already even higher in the ranks. Everyone’s clamouring for him. You barely have to squint to see it: the next developments in his career shimmer there in the blank space on the paper. There’s only one direction in which to go.

Maybe it’s too obvious a choice. Grantaire should be bolder, be more unexpected... But he and a Jehan Patroclus _would_ probably do well together, and according to the audition form Enjolras is willing to commit a generous amount of time, which is also annoyingly useful. (God knows why, but.)

“Is that Enjolras?” Eponine says, snatching the paper out of his hand as if there is nothing to question. “I know where _he’s_ going to go.”

 

They - as many of them who can make it that evening, at least - pile into the pub Grantaire works at, startling the dingy place awake. Grantaire has been neither the one to plan nor the one to suggest this little outing: in fact, it has already taken on a life of its own before he gets any say at all. A bunch of them want to congratulate one another on their _Iliad_ roles, and he expects a few others are just keen to have an excuse to go out on a night they’re not performing. Dancers.

Bahorel is here, too, and Grantaire isn’t entirely sure whether that is pure coincidence or is because he and Courfeyrac are so much bosom buddies these days that they’re actually co-ordinating on a practical level, but either way. He tosses him a wave, though can’t leave his station up at the bar. The manager of this place is usually already passed out in his rooms upstairs by this point, and Louison, another of the barmaids, has cheerily abandoned Grantaire for the evening, stating that he owes her. Which, to be fair, he does.  

He is slacking off a little, though; aside from the ballet group (who don’t _really_ count), the pub is empty enough that he can get away with pretending to wipe down the same patch of counter while Courfeyrac jigs his leg up and down from on the barstool opposite him. They’re in the midst of a conversation, but, on reflex, his eyes dart to the door when anyone comes in.

This time it’s Enjolras, and he has stopped short just beyond the door frame, looking a little lost. He hadn’t seemed as though he would be one of the cast members who would bother to show up to anything on the _social_ side. No, Enjolras seems a perfect example of a kind of dancer they all know, the rare but exceptional breed who are so dedicated to their art that they are utterly austere in everything beyond it; more of a soldier or a priest, living a regimental and ascetic life. Ballet school drills something into you - something you must either resist or embrace - and that is that there is no room for an ordinary life, and no room for fun.

When he looks this way, Grantaire gives him a goofy wave in greeting, but Enjolras doesn’t notice. Or is desperately pretending not to have noticed. Grantaire clicks his tongue softly, but maybe this betrays his suspicion that, of the possibilities, his instinct is towards the latter, because Courfeyrac leans over.

“He’s actually a big fan of yours,” he remarks, almost too innocently, giving Enjolras a sidelong glance so Grantaire doesn’t mistake his subject. Grantaire narrows his eyes.

“Doesn’t seem like it, mate,” Grantaire says, though he is hardly dismayed by that fact. No one’s a fan of his on a good day, and Enjolras would already be low on his list of contenders. It occurs to him, now, that maybe he should have based his casting of the weightier roles in his own ballet a little more on who he expects he’ll be able to get along with for an extended period of time. Not too extended, hopefully - he’s aiming to pull this off in just a few months - but whatever the best case scenario, he is _also_ hoping that everyone will come out of it alive.  

“No, seriously,” Courf returns quietly, and although his expression is neutral, there is definitely something devilish lurking beneath it. “He’s a huge fanboy. I’m talking _huge._ You’re like one of his role models. Trust me. He talks about you more than ‘Ponine does.”

Grantaire snorts outright. He doesn’t know what Courf’s trying to do here, but hell, he’s not that gullible. Enjolras doesn’t even know him, but _talks_ about him, to other living, breathing people? Fat chance of that.

“Wait a minute, he didn’t even know who I _was_ when we met the first time,” Grantaire remembers, which proves his point. “You heard him, you were there.”

But Courfeyrac shakes his head theatrically. “Okay, but - one, he wasn’t expecting you, of all people, to be there, and two - you look like a totally different person when you’re not in tights.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows.

Courf nods, suddenly solemn.

“Man, did it dawn on him later though!” He exclaims. “Plus, there’s literally some newspaper photo of you tacked up on his pinboard. You have pride of place next to Misty Copeland and freaking _Nureyev_ , my friend.”

Grantaire clamps a hand over his mouth, his shoulders wracked with silent laughter. “You’re fucking with me,” he gasps, shaking his head skeptically as Courf at last manages to get Enjolras’ attention, and waves him over. “You’ve got to be.”

Grantaire ducks his gaze, because however outlandish Courfeyrac’s story is, he doesn’t fancy having to explain his amusement to the blond, who has now reached them both. Courfeyrac greets him with a clap on the shoulder and, just before he glides off, murmurs in Grantaire’s ear, “I’ll send you a picture of it sometime.”

Grantaire has zero response to this. Instead, he accidentally meets Enjolras’ stare. Enjolras is looking slightly lost again, loitering awkwardly.

“Hey. Can I get you a drink?” He says to change the subject, fulfilling the bare minimum of his bartending capacity.

“Uh,” Enjolras says, humming thoughtfully as he looks across the beers on tap, to the spirits stacked up along the back wall. Maybe he’s just taking his decision seriously, but the hanging pause in the conversation is making Grantaire uncomfortable, so he pipes up again in the meantime. “Nice of you to come tonight,” he says, and manages to swallow at least half of that statement’s sarcasm.

“Thank you for giving me the part,” Enjolras returns earnestly.

“You’re welcome.” Grantaire gives him a wry grin. Getting the part really isn’t the end result here, though, so... “I s’pose we’ll see how long you’re thanking me for.”

Enjolras makes a face. “I suppose so.”

Their oh-so-natural conversation is briefly interrupted by Grantaire having to ring up another customer’s tab, and he spends the duration of this interlude ruminating again on the little yarn Courfeyrac has spun. No, it sure as hell can’t be.

When he looks back, Enjolras is half-leaning on one of the barstools, and he looks over expectantly. He must have finally figured out what he wants to drink -

“So why the _Iliad_?” Enjolras demands instead, with a real spark of interest.

“Why not?” Grantaire counters, in as little of an answer as possible. It’s little more than his instinctive response, but Enjolras’ brow creases predictably.

“It came to me in a dream,” he deadpans, just to watch it furrow further.

Okay, this is maybe not helping Enjolras’ impression of him much. Grantaire wouldn’t care, only that it would be a _bit_ of an inconvenience to have his newly-cast Achilles drop out before rehearsals have even begun because the guy running the show turned out to be so supremely shitty that he couldn’t even answer a simple question about his own project.

Reluctantly, he tries again. “Well, I dunno. It seemed like a good medium to interpret a world like that. It was oral poetry once, so it already needs to be more visceral than just words on a page, somehow. And you can’t go wrong with the Greeks for an epic story. And - it’s a lot like the ballet world, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Enjolras is still frowning at him.

Grantaire slides a glass along the countertop contemplatively. (It is utterly not _why_ he picked the _Iliad_ \- he knows full well why he picked it, and that reason is sitting right in front of him - but it might work better as an excuse.) “Kind of,” he says, puzzling it out. “So, the Greek army, right? They come from all over - Sparta, Mycenae, Ithaca, and so on - but they’ve come together to form a single army. That’s the ballet company as a whole: like any corps de danse, one entity made up of many. United. On the surface, they have the same goals. But Homeric Greece is ultimately a world of individuals - kings and heroes and demigods - and, when it comes down to it, that’s _exactly_ what professional ballet is. Every hero is after their own glory: everyone has personal ambitions, everyone secretly believes they’re the best. They fight over the few honours they get, but they live in a dog eat dog world, and so many people get sacrificed along the way. ‘Cause the fates are fickle; fortunes rise and fall. The gods live on their own level, but they’re greedy, they’re petty, they all play favourites - and don’t tell me you’ve ever had a ballet master or mistress or heard of an artistic director who has liked everyone equally, that’s just not a thing. So, _technically_ everyone’s working together, but at the end of the day - at the end of the war - it’s always about what they’re making of themselves. They know their life’s not going to last forever, that they’ve only got a short time to make a mark. Maybe they’ll be remembered, and maybe they won’t. Sound familiar?”

It sounds bloody dramatic, that’s what it sounds like. But, actually, this metaphor might just have some mileage.

“That's... crazy,” Enjolras says.

“But not inaccurate,” Grantaire persists.

Enjolras makes a noise that’s hard to interpret as either agreement or denial, but he is staring into space with an intentness that Grantaire presumes means he’s actually considering the merits of it. Grantaire’s rather impressed with himself.

“Alright, it’s a clever analogy, I suppose - but isn’t that kind of a bleak view?”

If Enjolras happens to know a single thing about Grantaire, surely _that_ isn’t something that should surprise him.

“If you like, but it’s well-founded.” He says, matter-of-factly.

Enjolras isn’t giving up. “But it doesn’t _have_ to be like that. Professional ballet, I mean. As an institution.”

 _That_ catches Grantaire off guard. “What do you mean?”

“Well - it’s not like that everywhere. It can’t be. Because it clearly _shouldn’t_ be like that, should it? That’s unreasonable. It’s not doomed to the fate of the Trojan _war_ . No one’s conscripted into this career: people _are_ supposed to care about ballet, but that doesn’t mean they can’t care about one another at the same time. You can’t believe every ballet company on earth is categorically like that. And the ones that are, well, yes, I agree, there ought to be different priorities. They need improvements, definitely, but they can be better.”

Grantaire studies Enjolras and that look he’s wearing, like he’s ready to leap up and go around knocking on ballet company doors right this minute.

“Yeah,” he points out, “but the point is that they’re not, and most of them will never change. That’s just the way it _is_ . Was it any better in Paris? Last I heard, Paris was _ruthless_ . Listen, maybe you’ve forgotten, but I also know exactly what your company here is like, because I used to _be_ there. So go on, please tell me it’s not about all that, tell me that anything about that company has changed in six years.” He doesn’t need to wait to hear that answer. Check and mate. “You can’t.”

Enjolras has opened his mouth, no doubt with something else to argue, but their conversation is interrupted again by another patron trying to order a drink. He’s saved. Grantaire peels away to pour a gin and tonic, but by the time he’s dealt with their cash Bahorel has appeared, introduced himself to Enjolras, and the next minute practically strong-armed him to a table across the pub with the sheer persuasion of a shark-like smile. They’re already engrossed in conversation, and Jehan flits over to sit with them after a moment or two, listening in whilst folding up a napkin in origami configurations.

Grantaire can’t complain about such brutal abandonment, because there are, in fact, beginning to be a few other customers to attend to. But a little while later, he catches Enjolras’ eye as he glances up his way, and Grantaire takes the opportunity to mouth ‘ _You can’t’_ again, crowning himself the definitive winner of this debate.

And then Marius knocks over Floreal’s glass across the table, and Floreal is staring at him as if he has suddenly grown three heads. Grantaire snatches up a cloth and goes to save him from his impending doom.

 

About an hour later, although it’s not too far off closing time, the pub starts heaving. A throng of football fans barge in, and they’re either buzzed from the match or already halfway to being hammered. Not to stereotype, but... they’re _exactly_ the kind of rowdy that gives football fans such bad rap in the press. In any case, they keep Grantaire busy at the counter, and he doesn’t get to speak to anyone he knows until Bahorel leaves Jehan and Enjolras to come up and refill his drink. He leans on the counter while he waits, and then jerks his head back at his table. “You know what, bro?” He declares, and Grantaire shrugs in anticipation. “You really should’ve done that _Legally Blonde_ thing after all.”

Grantaire’s response gets drowned out by a round of raucous laughter, and it’s coming from a group of men at the next table over to Bahorel’s, one of whom is leaning over towards Jehan. He can’t hear what exactly they are saying, but he can read the gist of the conversation by the way Jehan’s face abruptly hardens, by their sudden stiffness at the table. They and Enjolras must simultaneously resolve to ignore the attention, because neither of them respond; the other men continue to jeer amongst themselves.

Maybe the two of them make easy targets, sitting there and probably talking about ballet with dazzling sincerity, and Enjolras as pretty as he is, and Jehan so dauntless in dress and yet so mild in their outward manner. But it’s such a ridiculous response - to be so obviously _threatened_ by their defiance of norms, by their lack of shame - and still he’s seen it a thousand times before.

Grantaire’s half-convinced to round the bar and figure out a way to diffuse the tension before it goes on - he’s not bad at light-hearted banter with these types; he’ll probably be able to derail the topic - but Bahorel, whose folded arms tighten at every word from them that rises above the general noise, assures him with gritted teeth, “I’m going to piss and then I’m going to come back and sort them out.”  

He nods, relieved. Enjolras and Jehan can probably handle it well enough themselves - Grantaire doubts, bitterly, that it’s hardly the first time they’ve had to put up with casual baiting of this kind - but it makes him feel better that even a brainless idiot can work out fast enough that you don’t mess with Bahorel. Although he is determined to keep an eye on the situation, he’s got his hands full with more of the football crowd demanding drinks, and he has to make a hasty trip down to the cellar. On his ascent he has barely made it to the top of the stairs when he hears his name being called. He sets down the cask his arms are laden with and pushes through out to the front again.  

“Grantaire?!” Marius calls, sounding even more agitated. “I think you’d better come -”

“I’m here,” Grantaire says, surveying the tables for what’s happened to Marius. “I’ll be right there -” he assures, but maybe it’s not just another spill, because Marius has reached him at the back, and his face is pale.

“No, it’s - it’s Jehan -” he stammers, pointing in the direction of their table.

The table is empty. So is the one beside it. Instead, there is muffled shouting coming from outside. Courf and Floreal and the other dancers who are here tonight are half out of their seats, eyes wide; the rest of the pub are hushed, still in their chairs but all craning through the windows. Jehan and Enjolras are not among them.

With a sinking feeling, Grantaire dashes towards the door and yanks it open. He tumbles out into the outside air, head snapping sideways around the side of the building, the brick wall and the empty back alley parking lot.  

The first thing he sees is Jehan doubled over in a chokehold, but in the ten pounding strides it takes Grantaire to get there, the other guy is already on the ground, and Jehan, bloody-knuckled and skirt torn at the hem, is dragging him up by the collar of his shirt. “Get up,” they order impatiently. Grantaire dives in and grabs onto the first guy, too.

Jehan’s attacker might be defeated, but the other assholes in this little gang haven’t seemed to notice. They’re still apparently having a riotous time - and are racist and homophobic to boot - goading with the crudest insults they can come up with. What specimens of humanity. And the two of them have cornered Enjolras.

“Come on, princess, show us what you’ve got then,” the one on his left simpers, but the other mutters something a _lot_ worse.

“Oi!” Grantaire yells, trying to motion at the same time that Enjolras should try and get out of their fucking way, maybe, but Enjolras doesn’t seem to get the message. Or he does, and totally ignores it, because, with balled-up firsts and gritted teeth, he pulls himself up and says furiously: “Can you _believe_ that it’s the twenty-first century - and people are still - how do you say it? - so _fixated_ on mindlessly venerating -”

He gets struck hard in the face. Barely even flinching, he steps back and wipes off the sudden smear of blood with the back of his hand before he finishes, as if nothing has happened, “- antiquated gender roles.”

Grantaire has let go of the wanker Jehan has so competently in hand and launches towards the one who hit Enjolras, but he’s too late - Enjolras has just stepped up and kneed him briskly in the groin, violently enough that everyone hears the sharp intake of breath, that the man buckles forwards in pain. Enjolras shoves him by the shoulders and sends him careening backwards, spitting in disgust, “- that their masculinity is so fragile they think they have to prove themselves like this?”

The third guy looks like he’s rethinking his next move, because he drags up his pal by the arm and makes to stagger away, swearing angrily. He makes it all of three feet before something the size of a bull charges at him, slamming him back into the brick wall.

“Going somewhere?” Bahorel snarls.

If the battering they have had already had didn’t do it, that sobers them up. Jehan coolly releases the one by the scruff of his neck and steps away. Enjolras presses a hand to Jehan’s arm in solidarity, and they share an inward smile.

“Shit, guys,” Grantaire breathes. “Are you alright?” This is all his fault, he knows. He could have kicked the men out before they’d had a chance to be proper twats. He’s not fucking sorry for stereotyping them. Jehan and Enjolras nod, apparently unperturbed, but they can’t see their own faces right now so he tells them both, “Get some ice from the bar, yeah? And let someone help you home.”

“Nice moves,” Bahorel adds.

“Thanks. That was almost fun,” Jehan offers mildly, peering down at their knuckles. (Right, Grantaire thinks: in future, maybe never leave Jehan, Enjolras and Bahorel unsupervised again.)

Neither of them seem to be listening to him, but thankfully Bahorel chivvies them along until they do.

He’s also still hanging onto the third guy. “Idiots,” Bahorel hisses, with completely seriousness, in the guy’s face. “You don’t fucking mess with ballet dancers.”

“Alright,” Grantaire says.

“That’s it?” Bahorel protests.

“Marius has probably called the police by now.”

“They’re not here yet,” Bahorel points out. Yeah, they’re useless. (Probably lucky that they didn’t see Jehan and Enjolras in battle, though. They might’ve misinterpreted who was being assaulted.) “I’ll just hang onto this one, then,” he adds, and the guy’s face is ashen.

“Wait a minute,” Grantaire chimes in, stepping up opposite him.

Just one, he tells himself. One quick pop, and that’s it. No one will ever know. Grantaire has never made any claims to be a responsible human being. And after all... what’s the point in all his boxing practice if he never gets to use it?

Bahorel loosens his grasp on the guy. Grantaire pulls back, energy coiled furiously inside him. The very act of doing so unleashes something else in him; real outrage, roiling in waves. The guy is going to try and dodge, but Grantaire factors this in. His hand makes a fist - he swings it through the air, all his weight behind it - and there is a satisfying crunch, a crack as his knuckles connect with bone.

Bahorel whoops.

The man howls. “I’ll fucking get you fired!” He screeches, staggering backwards, a hand to his face. “I’ll tell your bloody manager!”

“Go on then,” Grantaire challenges cheerfully.

Which, in retrospect, is possibly not the _smartest_ response in the world. Because they do end up filing a complaint to his manager, and threatening to do far worse than that.

  
And, well, he does get fired.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for everyone's kind words, they honestly make my day! <3
> 
> So far I've been updating weekly on Sundays, but with next Sunday being Christmas and the holidays being pretty busy, the next update likely won't be until sometime during the last week of December, or Sunday 1st at the latest. But Combeferre, Joly and Bossuet all finally make appearances in the next chapter, so hang on for that! 
> 
> In the meantime, happy holidays!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Grantaire gets rolling with the music and the rehearsal schedule, some steps are taken, some dancing is done, and that is one _ridiculous_ bandana.

On the bright side, with fewer - in fact, zero - evenings now spent on shifts at the pub, Grantaire does have a lot more free time to figure out this ballet. On the less-bright side, there’s also a lot more now riding on him actually making something _of_ this ballet - and being able to pay back the Bahorels for their indulgence - so, hey, no pressure. At any rate, Grantaire has gotten himself out of worse steaming piles of shit than this before. He can’t remember what they all were right now, but he is sure he has.

In other news, Eponine was right. Combeferre is weird.

Grantaire already fucking loves him. Admittedly, for the first ten minutes after showing up at the flat Combeferre shares - which is in a nicer borough and a nicer building than Grantaire’s, but also easily half the size, as is the way in this city - he is mildly terrified: when this smart guy opens the door, at least six-foot-four, in a freshly-pressed shirt, sweater vest and glasses, looking as though he is about to pick up a briefcase and be on his way to a conference or a lecture. He shakes his hand, offers him a cup of tea, shows him around the tiny living room, a little upright piano sat in pride of place. Grantaire feels like more of a mess with every second that passes, feels like he’s contaminating the flat with his baggy t-shirt and jeans and his disorganised thoughts about the music for the _Iliad_.

But by the time they have broken through the small talk and actually started on discussing the music, Combeferre transfigures into someone else entirely. The sweater vest comes off, the shirt sleeves get shoved up to his elbows, the kettle boils and he can’t get up to make the tea anymore because he’s in the middle of too important a thought. He only offers _hmm_ s and restrained nods while Grantaire tries to describe what he wants from the score, but then he repeats a phrase or an idea, and extrapolates from that in a frenzy of hand gestures. Halfway through another of Grantaire’s rambles, Combeferre hurtles over to the piano, and when Grantaire rounds off, confused, he tests out a tune or two or ten until he can pick the one that illustrates the style or the mood he wants.

“I mean, I don’t want it to be too much of a cliche,” Grantaire remarks. “Like, if you think, oh, it’s ancient Greece or a little bit middle eastern, we’d better have a mournful woman’s voice wailing operatically the entire time so they know where we are, like every damn film  -” he mimics this, the staple sound to so many crappy classical films, and Combeferre grins.

“So that’s a no on the Mediterranean wail,” he articulates, jotting something down.

“Not that I don’t want it to be big and epic and operatic, obviously,” Grantaire adds.

“No, I think you certainly need epic.” Combeferre agrees. “But I think we can try and be a little original, too. Are there any classical ballet composers you particularly like, or anything from them that might complement the _Iliad_ especially?”

“I actually like what Khachaturian did for _Spartacus_ ,” Grantaire says, closing his eyes to picture his favourite pieces of ballet music, what he’s envisioning for the _Iliad_ . “Some of Minkus’ stuff in _La Bayadère_ and _Don Quixote_ , um... I mean I know Tchaikovsky’s a god among men -”

Combeferre laughs.

“- or among composers, whatever, and I want it to be _as_ expressive as that, I want the music to be moving, but - and I’m not hating on Tchaikovsky here, I promise - but I’m also not married to the thought of a _totally_ nineteenth century-sounding ballet, classical or romantic. I want...”

In the end, he only shrugs, because the truth is that he doesn’t really know.

Combeferre scratches his head meditatively. “You probably don’t remember the piece I composed for your old company a while ago. Actually, you wouldn’t have been there, but...”

“No, Eponine reminded me about that,” he puts in, although his memory of seeing it is hazy, and his memory of the music more so. "I think I saw it."

“It doesn't matter, but... that dance was one that mixed choreography: it plucked a piece of dance out of its classical context and its narrative ballet, and sort of - abstracted and updated it with some contemporary sections. So that score ended up being a Tchaikovsky remix, of sorts.” He explains. “Actually, I can play it for you. See what you think.”

  


The next time Grantaire checks the clock, it is to the startling realisation that he has been here for nearly five and a half hours. Combeferre has just collected another sheaf of sheet music from a stack atop his piano and crossed back over to the table, to which he has also hauled a keyboard and some laptop equipment and been fiddling around with them, experimenting in ways that make little technical sense to Grantaire but are birthing some entertaining results. It doesn't look like Combeferre's going to stop there, either, since he already wants to do some more research into Greek music - create some sounds that might be reminiscent of a lyre, or some aulos melodies on modern reed instruments, or something - and together they have constructed a rough plan of the ballet’s libretto, a sort of storyboard for the narrative, and are working out how the motifs for characters and the ballet’s arc might fit in. Combeferre presses his glasses further up his face as he marks down another point or two on an increasingly illegible hand-scrawled document, and he is just saying something when Grantaire’s stomach growls so loudly that it boots them both right out of their state of concentration.

Grantaire grins in rueful apology, but when Combeferre follows his eyes to the clock he winces, equally apologetically. “I didn’t realise -”

“Me neither.” He waves it off. “But this has been great -”

He doesn’t get to thanking him for all of this, because now Combeferre’s stomach pipes up, and Grantaire accidentally winds up sticking around for sandwiches.

  


“Wait, you heard about what, er, happened at the pub the other night?” Grantaire repeats, through a mouthful of bread.

“I did. The summary I got from Enjolras was quite concise - and normally I'd accuse Courfeyrac of embellishing the rest of the details - but he did look a little worse for wear afterwards.”

Christ, is Combeferre friends with all of his cast already? That will actually probably make things easier, Grantaire supposes; so he just adds, with a wry grimace, “Yeah. Unfortunate side-effect. Could have been worse, but still. I wonder how that’ll have gone down for the company’s golden boy.”

Combeferre chuckles, but then finishes chewing and shakes his head. “If you mean Enjolras, he’s not nearly as golden as you might think,” and Grantaire takes this to mean in character, because between the _hair_ and the _dancing_ , golden seems like a swell adjective to him.

“ _Really_?” He questions skeptically. They are talking about _Apollo_ , aren’t they? Admittedly, Enjolras doesn’t seem like a ray of _sunshine,_ at least not in the happy-go-lucky, smiley, angelic sense. No, he’s angelic in the exact opposite way - the ‘Hark! Behold! Maybe you _should_ be very afraid right now’ way; Michael ‘gonna-beat-up-Satan-himself’ The Archangel way. Like, give Enjolras a lance, wings and a fiery halo and those cretins the other night would have pegged it without a second thought, would have run for their fucking lives at the sheer majesty. Grantaire tries in vain to vanquish this picture as Combeferre goes on.

“Perhaps it's not common knowledge, but in the short time he’s been there, he has had a few disagreements with the company and the board of directors. More than his fair share, one might even say.”

“I had no idea.” Grantaire says slowly, digesting this information. So he is terrifyingly serious, yes, and maybe the type eternally keen to take up arms, maybe the type to have capital-O Opinions... but surely he’s still the company’s latest boy prodigy? Grantaire thinks he remembers how this works, after all. Enjolras has that kind of talent, so he’s already set to bring everything they’re looking for to the table: revenue, attention, success. Esteemed names will flock to him and - through that - to the company, and he’ll get every part he could possibly want from them, as long as he keeps dancing like that. (Put like that, he sounds like their best trick pony. Far be it for Grantaire to comment anymore, but from what he remembers, that's hardly far off.)

He leans forward, intrigued. “What kind of disagreements? Has he gotten in fights before?”

The people relying on Enjolras to dance wouldn't be best pleased by that. Maybe they don’t put it exactly like that in the official contract, but if you are under contract at a company they do expect you to take the responsibility of that seriously. Your body is your instrument and your craft, _et cetera_ , and you’ve got to do everything in your power to take care of it. One injury could be enough to fell a career, you don't go looking to pick up extra. Besides, you get beat up well enough in the daily regimen of rehearsal and class, so your muscles are permanently sore even before you can try to get into any brawls.

He doesn’t know what Enjolras _could_ be doing to test the ballet company’s patience, to have put him on their shit-list. He doesn’t seem like the sort to - keep bad habits, as it were. Tabloid culture in other industries often thrives off that kind of stuff. A lot of them have unhealthy patterns, sure, and sometimes they are deep-rooted. Grantaire’s heard enough retching in the toilets, seen enough cigarette-blackened fingers, seen plenty of people unravel. But drunks, playboys, real rebels: it’s a hard charade to cultivate in professional ballet, whilst putting in all the work and dedication to stay at the top of your game onstage, to not get sloppy. It’s not a natural balance, trying to care and not-care about everything at the same time. (And Grantaire would know.)  

Maybe he’s just biased by his own experiences, but - even if Grantaire _is_ somehow a role model of his; and even in spite of that punch-up in the parking lot - Enjolras has the stench of poster boy about him.

Similarly, Combeferre doesn’t seem like the sort to trade in idle gossipmongering, so what Grantaire expects from his prodding he doesn’t know - but apparently the composer is formulating a response.

“Not fights, really. But he's not one to keep quiet when he has something to say. And he and the company... Well, their priorities and their visions often - diverge, I suppose,” he offers carefully. He doesn’t elaborate.

Huh.

“Well, hey, at least that makes him work well for Achilles,” Grantaire half-jokes. Better than imagined, in fact. Better than Enjolras might admit.

“What made you choose him?” Combeferre asks, interested.

“Ah, you know,” Grantaire says, rocking back in his chair. “He’s a half-decent dancer. _Passable_.”

Combeferre snorts.

“... He fit the part too well to _not_ cast him, you know?” Grantaire shrugs, struggling to put the artistic sense he’s gotten from him into reasonable, professional terms. “He’s got a really interesting kind of gravitas, he’s very...” He lifts his glass of water to his mouth, still debating the end of that sentence. But he never gets to finish it at all, because at that moment the apartment door opens, and when he looks up, he chokes on his mouthful of water.

In marches Enjolras. Enjolras, clad in a white vest and blindingly _bright_ blue leggings, a faded red sweatshirt slung sloppily around his waist. There are still beads of sweat on his forehead, but he also has a bandana knotted around like a headband, blond curls spilling out over it. If Grantaire isn’t mistaken, the blue-white-red pattern of the bandana is nothing less than that of a folded-over French flag.

Ballet has its own rules of ‘fashion’; in class almost anything goes. (Bahorel used to be horrified by this: he never would meet Grantaire on the street outside the studio, to spare himself the ‘fucking eyesore’ of fifty dancers sauntering out looking like something out of a bad 80s exercise fitness video.) Objectively speaking, Enjolras’ is not the worst outfit he’s seen: not even close, in fact.

But it’s really the split lip that makes it. The gash where the skin was ruptured hasn’t healed well, and the whole side of his lip has swollen up so much that his face looks lopsided. Which is in itself a travesty... but it complements the bruised eye quite nicely.

Some of his mouthful of water sprays out across the table as he doubles over in a coughing fit.

But _w_ _hat. The. Hell._

Grantaire is clearly cursed, or Enjolras has some great connections down in hell - speak of the devil, and the devil doth appear. It’s like he _knows_. No, but this time it’s pure coincidence, isn’t it? It’s not as though he spends his days listening through apartment doors to see if his friends are talking about him. Even Grantaire isn’t that neurotic.

Once he has managed to set the glass back down, he puts up a fist to his mouth, clearing his throat in an attempt to come back from that with the slightest amount of grace. Enjolras has stopped a metre away from the two of them as if he is debating whether or not he ought to be offering assistance, slapping Grantaire on the back or something - a hand is hovering outstretched. But he hasn’t, and doesn’t, and Grantaire has straightened up in his seat again, so it’s fine, but his eyes are caught on that hand. Enjolras glances down at it with a similar uncertainty, as if he has only just registered he is holding it there - but then it leaps up to rub the back of his neck.

“Wow, I like your face,” Grantaire blurts out, just about recovered.

“Ha,” Enjolras says dryly, and Grantaire can’t work out if he looks annoyed by this, or it’s just because he literally can’t smile right now.

Grantaire finally disentangles his gaze, although he can’t quite bring himself to meet Combeferre’s eyes just yet, either, so he concentrates on his plate.

“How did class go?” Combeferre asks.

“Not bad. A bit of barre, but mostly adage. Rehearsal was okay too. They still won’t let me perform until the swelling’s gone down, so that’s all I had. How are you two getting on?”

“Great,” Grantaire puts in, a little too heartily. “Fantastic. Combeferre’s a genius.” Given all that all the composer has been able to do for the last fifteen minutes is address the events at the pub and tackle Grantaire’s questions about Enjolras, Grantaire decides that it is best not to elaborate.

Combeferre ducks his head modestly.

Enjolras responds to the dearth of conversation beyond that with just a brief nod. He crosses to the kitchen and pulls open a cupboard.

“Oh.” Grantaire says suddenly, wondering why he has been finding this such a strange sight. “You’re - you live here,” he puzzles it out aloud. “ _Here_. With... Combeferre.”

An entire _conversation_ about him, and Combeferre didn’t think to _mention_?

“I do,” Enjolras says, agreeably enough, mixing milk into his cereal.

Grantaire plays it cool and manages a shrug. “Right. Cool.”

Enjolras picks up his bowl as if to carry it to the table, but he halts before he reaches it, since there’s still a keyboard, a laptop, and sheet music strewn all over it. Ferre starts shuffling a bit of stuff into a neater pile, but Enjolras doesn’t seem to mind, just leans against the cupboards instead, cradling the bowl in one arm and fishing out a spoonful of shredded wheat.

Grantaire watches him eat, chewing everything on one side of his mouth. It’s a delicate operation.

He can feel the fuse of his self-restraint fizzling up, but he holds out, counting second by second until Enjolras has finally finished washing up his bowl and wandered down the hall. (Damn, if only he’d known earlier: he could have gotten away with using a bathroom break to snoop, just to be sure, once and for all, whether Courf has been having him on.)

But there it is - Enjolras’ bedroom door shuts behind him - and Grantaire can breathe again.

He doesn’t need to say a thing out loud: he’s fairly sure his gaping mouth has communicated his principal question. _How could you not fucking tell me?_

Combeferre peers at him over his glasses in perfect innocence.

  
  


The last couple of weeks have passed in the blink of an eye, and he is no longer standing on the shore, looking out across the horizon and trying to make out an incoming mast - he’s suddenly waist-deep in the water, feet sinking into the sand, trying to build his own boat from scratch. Sorry, that’s a strange, nonsensical metaphor: he spent all of yesterday with his new members of the corps attempting to choreograph the _Iliad_ ’s catalogue of ships, and it’s hard to push these things out of his head afterwards. Basically, he’s actually getting stuck in now, and worse than that, he’s kind of getting dragged violently into the undertow. Combeferre doesn’t seem to sleep, because he has already sent Grantaire rough compositions for a selection of scenes in Act One. Working from the music has helped to speed Grantaire up a little, although it still feels like he can only settle on ten seconds of movement for every five hours of his dicking around.

His corps de ballet are a mixed bunch, cobbled together from professionals, amateurs, ex-students and ex-dancers, varying in age and training and ability, and most of them haven’t worked together before, and together they lack every bit of a corps’ prized uniformity. Companies who can afford to be picky have stringent rules, can press their dancers through a cookie-cutter mold and scrap the ones who don’t work for their image, who can’t quite assimilate. This is a very different task. Grantaire needs everyone he can get his hands on. They’ve got time, of course, and they’ll get to know everyone else and get used to dancing together, but halfway through the day yesterday he also realised that he might be able to use it to his advantage. In the opening scenes he has devised to show the Greek armies encamped outside Troy, at least, he has the whole corps dancing, but he has also split them up into smaller groups, soldiers from different cities and islands, and within these distinctions, he can encourage their difference. In the _Iliad_ there are tribes of men from Aulis, Euboea, Salamis and Argos and Pylos and Sparta all swarming out from their ships into the fight with Troy, so who says there can’t be some variance among them?

When they are assembled in a group, though, there’s no lack of inspiration in Homer. The _Iliad_ has boundless descriptions, so many similes that provoke ideas about movement. It's choreographic gold, seriously. Soldiers are at times flocks of geese or cranes or swans flying, flies buzzing in a cloud, hordes of ants - there’s a lot to work in.

Possibly Grantaire’s prime realisation from that day of choreography is that, all else aside, he’s seriously out of shape. There he is, asking everyone to go over things over and over again, when one demonstration is enough to see him out of breath.

So he figures, if he gets to the practice studio at the back of the theatre an hour or so early, he can give himself a personal workout before anyone gets there, and maybe eventually he won’t be an embarrassment to himself. (Admittedly, _that_ achievement will take a hell of a lot more than a daily workout, so he’s not expecting wonders.) But doing a little bit extra every day should make a difference. Probably. Grantaire has never possessed a model work ethic. Not even back in his company days.

It’s a nice thought, anyhow, but by the time he has worked up the willpower to roll out of bed and actually made it to the theatre he’s running late. As a side-effect he isn’t late for his proper day, though, so Grantaire cheats and calls this success. And he still has about twenty-five minutes before he can expect any of the cast to arrive, so he strips off his outer layer of clothes, rolls his footless tights up a little further up above his ankles, and pulls on an old pair of ballet shoes. He’s worn them before this week, but his feet still feel like stranger’s feet inside them. He should have started afresh with a new pair - and he will, he will - but these were the ones he had lying around. They still have dark, smudged marks of overuse in the toes; the soles are still worn in places peculiar to his stance back then. Heck, they even still have the same smell. It’s his feet that have changed: they’re not even dancer’s feet anymore. Weird what a few years going around so strangely flat-footed can do. And on the surface, too, the only blisters he has now are newborn, young and pink and raw. The old layers of bruised and calloused and peeling skin he was used to are long since gone.  

He only makes it through a few tendus at the barre before he tugs them off and leaves them on the floor, pressing his bare feet into third position, watching his toes curl against the floor. He does some slow relevés, lifting one leg up so his toes are at his knee, as if about to pirouette, the other heel off the ground so his supporting foot is on demi-pointe. Grantaire repeats this action without counting, working his thigh muscles and maintaining his balance. Every so often he looks down at his feet in disconcerted wonder, marvelling at how good it feels.

But he doesn’t get much further than that before the studio room door opens, and Enjolras comes in. It’s his first day; of _course_ he’s early.

“Yo,” Grantaire says, lowering his heels and slouching against the barre as he looks over. “No bandana today, I see?” He teases, almost disappointed. Enjolras’ choice of outfit today is far more staid; grey leggings, white t-shirt. “You lose the black eye and somehow all your sense of fashion adventure disappears with it.”

“Say whatever you like, but I don’t see anything remarkable about your style,” Enjolras bats back with an arched eyebrow, looking dispassionately at Grantaire’s tights and band t-shirt. He has a point.

“Oh, I'll work on it. Next time.” Grantaire promises, with a grin. “You’re a bit early.”

“Sorry. I can go, if you're not ready? I thought I should get properly warmed up.”

Grantaire gestures him on, in nonchalant encouragement.

They take opposite sides of the same barre, each of them starting in on their own stretches. Enjolras is facing away, toward the front of the room; Grantaire, as he leans over the barre again with his furthest hand aloft in a port de bras position, has a natural view of the back of him while he does a simple plié exercise.

It’s a very nice view, in fact. And it’s pleasing from a purely scientific perspective, he insists, watching his butt muscles work. In terms of heroism, on a scale of one to Brad Pitt, it’s -

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Enjolras’ glance dart up, catching him through the mirror. Grantaire can tell he knows.

Well, weeks of this could get awkward fast.

“Is that the deepest you can go?” Grantaire remarks instead, with a shrug as a cover-up, a silent ‘that’s what she said’ ringing in his own head. He just can’t help himself.

“What?” Enjolras’ head snaps round.

“Your plié. It’s pretty pathetic,” he points out.

Enjolras’ eyes narrow, but he adjusts his turnout and, still straight-backed, sinks further down into the bend. Grantaire greets this improvement with a smug grin.

“Are you ever going to do the other side?” Enjolras counters crossly, eyeing the one arm that Grantaire has been stretching the whole time.

“Yes, sir,” Grantaire says, giving Enjolras a brisk salute as he spins around on demi-pointe to the other side. Enjolras might not be able to see his face any more, but he does still have to muffle his snort.

  


When Eponine, Courfeyrac, Floreal and the rest of the dancers required in this scene are all warmed up and Grantaire has played them Combeferre’s draft of the music, he runs through what he wants to happen. “This is what the _Iliad_ opens with, and in the ballet it’s the first scene where we get a sense of your characters and the conflict between them. Agamemnon insists on taking Briseis, Achilles’ war prize from him. In the midst of their argument, Achilles’ outrage has already flared up, and it’s only at Athena’s urging that he doesn’t put his sword through Agamemnon then and there.”

He positions Enjolras upstage left, and Courfeyrac diagonal to him, downstage right, and breaks down a few steps, explaining as he goes, “So while Agamemnon is one of the more powerful kings, and is the one making most of the decisions for the Greek army, Achilles is their most valuable warrior, and he doesn’t feel sufficiently respected. No, not like that,” he cuts off, at Enjolras’ arabesque, tugging him by the wrists to get him to stretch further out. “Come on -” he is saying, but Enjolras’ upper body has stiffened at the abrupt contact, and Grantaire releases him sheepishly.

“Now he _definitely_ doesn’t feel sufficiently respected,” he can hear Courfeyrac tease.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says to Enjolras, contrite. Most of his memories of being taught choreography are of being tugged this way and that, every position tweaked as though he was a toy soldier or a ragdoll, but maybe other people aren’t used to that? Suddenly self-conscious, he adds, “I’m new at this -”

“No,” Enjolras says, “it’s fine, I - you just caught me off guard.” Pointedly, he relaxes, looking back at Grantaire. “How do you want my arms?”

Grantaire shows him, and makes adjustments to his stance as gently as he can. As soon as possible, he moves down to Courfeyrac. “Agamemnon’s taking all the credit for everything the Greeks have been doing, but he’s reliant on Achilles, so he’s doing the same sequence of steps as Achilles, but later, and more laboured -” Courfeyrac doesn’t flinch at all at his touch, so Grantaire gets him doing the same moves but bolder, heavier, “- I know it goes against the point of ballet, not looking effortless and all, but that’s good.”

“Whereas Achilles should be light, springing -” Enjolras adds some more definition to his bent leg before his pas de bourrée, “- and faster, another bar ahead.” He rakes a hand through his hair, shutting his eyes to consider what can lead on from that. When he opens them, Enjolras has just performed a pas de chat of his own accord. “Keep that,” Grantaire requests. It works. Enjolras blinks in surprise.

Things get more complicated when the two of them approach each other towards centre-stage, and what looks as though it might become a fight instead twists into a pas de trois, with Athena as intermediary, Eponine spinning into the space between Achilles and Agamemnon. Grantaire sets her up so that every time Enjolras begins to lunge towards Courfeyrac, Eponine is there to distract him, to reel him back, forcing him to support her as she pirouettes and arabesques, a human - or, in this case, godly - barrier. And then Floreal comes out as Briseis, which adds yet another facet of this conflict, and it becomes a complex pas de quatre. Achilles and Agamemnon are always reaching for Briseis, fighting over her - one of them will lift her, and the other will be the one to catch her as she comes down - and Athena is always disrupting, the goddess with the upper hand.

It’s going to take a hell of a lot of refinement, both to the music and the choreography, and the lifts will need to be practised until they can be executed safely and then seamlessly. But, Grantaire thinks, soaked with sweat even though he has done the least dancing of the five of them, it’s a start. It’s a start.

  
  


“Wait a second. Isn’t there a law against Bossuet being in the kitchen?”

Grantaire has never considered himself squeamish in the slightest - he has peeled off his own toenails in the past, after all - but watching Bossuet vehemently dicing onions is testing his mettle. Truly.

“Without supervision,” Bossuet corrects him, jerking the knife tip over at Joly in demonstration. “Got my supervision.”

“Yeah, but he’s -” embroiled in a mountain of spreadsheets, Grantaire is going to say, which doesn’t instil a whole lot of confidence.

“I’m watching,” Joly interjects, making a gesture with his fingers to illustrate this without actually removing his gaze from the laptop screen. It’s as though he has inherited all those weirdly specific superpowers that mothers supposedly have, eyes in the back of his head and all.

Bossuet beams in triumph, and his next slice misses the onion entirely.

Five feet away at the table, with a row of the countertop in the way, Grantaire curls his fingers into fists, just to be safe.

“Thanks for doing this,” he says again, leaning over Joly’s shoulder at the spreadsheet to distract himself.

“You’re very welcome,” Joly returns. “Anything for our dear Grantaire.”  

A thank you is not really enough. He is forever indebted to Joly, who seems to have taken this hellish task as if it’s a piece of cake. A walk in the park. A trip to the petting zoo (minus the allergies). He’s making a long-term rehearsal plan, consolidating everyone’s own schedules into a document and sorting out who can learn which scenes when. Grantaire, in true fashion, has worked out a schedule for no further than the end of this week. (Listen, he tried, honestly he did. He got as far as opening Excel. And then promptly closing Excel again. After another five attempts at this, he had to call in the reinforcements.)

Grantaire reaches out to ruffle his hair.

“Can I help?”

“No, I’ve got this, you’re fine.”

That’s a relief, because Grantaire was going to be no help at all.

“Can I help Bossuet?” He asks instead, waggling his eyebrows suggestively at Bossuet, who doesn’t see, because he still has a very sharp knife in his hands.

“Oh! You can toss me a couple of peppers from the fridge?” He asks.

“Mm, dunno if I can be bothered,” Grantaire pretends, but eventually he drags himself to his feet and pulls open their fridge. He rummages around in the vegetable drawers. “Green or red?”

“Both, please,” Joly informs him.

“Here, catch,” he says, feigning a throw at Bossuet’s head. Bossuet lifts his hands up to catch it, but the knife clatters to the floor in the process, and he winces as it narrowly avoids his toes. Instead, Grantaire steps back and juggles the peppers from one hand to another, before setting them safely down on the chopping board and fleeing the danger zone with a stolen carrot to munch on.

“Some of them have a lot of free time coming up,” Joly remarks with curiosity, as Grantaire falls back into his seat.

“Yeah, I know,” Grantaire agrees. “I guess their performances this season are coming to an end, so they’ll have more evenings off anyway, and then there’s annual holidays, a couple weeks off. I don’t know how long this’ll end up taking us, but Eponine says they also have a guest company visiting next season so they won’t have to be dancing in the programme as much as usual.”

“Good timing, then,” Joly then. “But, R - the schedule’s getting pretty jam-packed, and I’m trying to space everyone out so they’re not doing too much - but you won’t overwork them, will you? If you push them too hard on top of what they’re doing already you could really aggravate any strains or injuries, and then they won’t be able to dance at all.”

“It’s like you don’t know me at all,” Grantaire protests, pouting like he’s been shot through the heart. “The minimum amount of work possible is my motto.”

Joly’s expression softens just a touch, but he continues to peer over, evidently waiting for further assurances that Grantaire can possibly be a responsible human being. Grantaire chomps down on the carrot, and keeps Joly in suspense until he has finished chewing. Then he sighs plaintively and relents and says seriously, “Yes. I understand. I do. I’ll be careful, I solemnly swear. If I think anyone’s endangering themselves I’ll send them straight to you for a talking-to.”   

“Well done, Bugs Bunny,” Joly nods, alight with a sunny smile. “Do.”

Grantaire is about to respond, but Joly abruptly descends into quietness, turning his head away as if he is staring out of the window. He probably isn’t, though. Grantaire gnaws on the inside of his mouth instead now, at a loss for comforting words. Joly, see, knows exactly what he’s talking about. They got through all of ballet school together, put in all the work - and on top of that Joly was the one to coax _him_ through everything, whenever things got tough, whenever Grantaire found himself skating on thin ice. Whatever he put into dancing, Joly would always put in double, triple the effort, would try more than most of the class put together. Who was there to teach Grantaire the combinations for the classes he missed? Who was there to make sure Grantaire showed up for exams? Who had gotten into the company right along with him? Who _else_ would remember the time they had eaten six big bags of skittles before a performance of _The Nutcracker_ in their first professional season, and spent the Sugar Plum Fairy’s solo both puking up the rainbow in the wings?

And then Joly had injured his knee. All it had taken was a torn ACL: he had needed reconstruction surgery. Even if the ligament graft _had_ healed properly, Joly was still only in the corps, and the company hadn’t cared, couldn’t promise him a place held for him if he made it through rehab. Grantaire can still picture visiting him while the physio was testing his knee extensions, can still see him lying there on the physio table, following their every instruction, face contorted with the sheer effort of it - and then the exercises are over, and he slumps backwards, all the fight in him drained away. And he continues to sit there, still and morose and unable to look at his knee at all. There was nothing to say then, when Joly's best hope was to be able to dance again. And then the moment he did, when complications flared up - the ligament again, a new onset of osteoarthritis - and suddenly he was supposed to be gratified about being able to _walk_ again at all? How Joly could go on to train to make a career of rehabilitating other injured dancers, Grantaire can’t fathom, but he is endlessly awed. Maybe he's just slower to get over it than Joly, and that's ridiculous, because it didn't even happen to him. But Joly had loved ballet with every fibre of his being; he, of anyone, had deserved to dance. And Grantaire? Grantaire never had. He never deserved any of it.

And there’s nothing to say now, when Joly is doing all this for him and his ballet, his cane propped up behind the chair. Or, maybe.

“Hey,” he says. “Joly.”

Joly startles out of his silence, shield back up when he meets Grantaire’s eyes. “Yes?”

“You know what could work?” He begins. “I know you’re busy, but - it’d be better to have someone on hand to keep an eye on things throughout rehearsals, don’t you think? To make sure no one’s going to hurt themselves. To make sure I get stuff done. Would you want to, I don’t know, be assistant director?”    

A switch flicks in Joly’s face, feigned smile shattering into a brilliantly real one. “Sure,” he beams.   


 

“Hey, Bossuet,” Grantaire adds, a little later. “You up for being my backstage guy?”

“You bet,” Bossuet says, and pumps his fist in celebration through his tears. (Because of the onions. Probably.)

 

“Musichetta might do you some costumes,” Joly puts in, clicking away again. “If you ask her nicely.”

“Awesome,” Grantaire says. “Where is she today?”

“Oh, she’s downstairs in the shop working on some furniture.”

“Ah, still on the upcycling, then?” The three of them jointly own the downstairs shop front, and since Grantaire has known them, the space has cycled through plenty of identities. Once upon a time, it was a bookshop. Until Joly got his job in physio, they used it as a gym. For a while after that Bossuet sold bikes. After Chetta took a course in floristry, it was a flower shop for a bit. For the past few months they’ve been in the furniture business, and even their rooms upstairs have been spilling over in wacky upcycled furniture.

“She’s making some cushions for the barrel-chair, I think. And we just finished turning an old bathtub into a chaise longue, you should look at it,” Bossuet enthuses. “It’s in the sitting room right now.”

Grantaire leaves Joly to his spreadsheet fun and Bossuet to his cooking (there are getting to be some dubious smells in there, so he crosses his fingers and hopes he doesn’t miss any kitchen drama while he’s not in the room) and swings into their sitting room. Gavroche is sprawled on the bathtub, watching television and scribbling in the margins of one of his school books. (This because Eponine’s got stuff on today, so it’s one of Grantaire’s Gavroche-sitting days. Since they hang out here sometimes anyway, he doesn’t think Gavroche minds too much.)

“Yo,” he says.

“What,” Gavroche grunts, without looking up.

Grantaire snorts. “Nothing.”

“It’s wild,” he yells through to Joly and Bossuet, about the reinvented bathtub.

After a little more prodding, Gavroche mutes the television and decides he might as well do some barre practice. With his hand on a suitable cabinet unit, he goes through his exercises. Grantaire hangs around to watch, and to get nearly kicked in the balls every time Gavroche does a grand battement. He starts dodging.  

 

“Grantaire,” Joly says from the other room, a little while later.

“Uh oh, what?” He answers. He wanders in, pulling a face as he does.

Joly waves him over. “I think your logistics are a little bit off.”

Grantaire sighs and sinks down beside him. “Damn. What did I do?”

He squints at the sprawling spreadsheets Joly has conjured up - a full timetable for Grantaire and a sheet for every dancer’s separate timetable. He’s too good.

“You have Irma as Helen, but her schedule’s too tight. She can’t make any of the rehearsal times - _days_ \- that Paris can.”

“Well, shit.” This is why he needs Joly.

“That’s okay!” Joly says brightly. “I think I can fix this. But can I shuffle people around?”

“Do whatever you’ve gotta do,” Grantaire accepts, bringing a foot up onto his opposite knee to stretch out the ache, as Joly fiddles around with a few things.

“Okay, I’ve had to switch Irma to Thetis,” he explains, proudly displaying the amended (and now, increasingly colour-coded) spreadsheet. “She’ll be in fewer rehearsals. That’s left -” he double-checks, “- um, Cosette as Helen. She can make the same times as Marius, although you might need to scrounge a little extra time from her, if you can. Just to be safe.”

“Hold on, I’ll text them.” He leans over to the counter for his phone. “Gavroche, dude, where’s my phone?”

No answer. Rolling his eyes, he gets to his feet again to lean across into the sitting room, hand outstretched expectantly. Gavroche is splayed on the couch again on his back, Grantaire’s phone held up barely an inch from his face.

“What are you even doing on that?” Gavroche has his own phone, so, like.

“Drunk texting your exes,” the kid informs him.

Grantaire snorts.  

“You suck at Candy Crush,” Gavroche admits. “Here, catch.”

The phone goes sailing through the air. There is a small part of him that would love to see the thing fracture as it slams into the floor - purely for the spectacle - but alas, Grantaire dives for it before it hits the tiles.

He fires off a couple of messages. “Irma’s fine with that,” he feeds back, as one message pops up. “And so’s Cosette. Thanks, Joly.”

“You’re welcome.” Joly says. “Will she and Marius work as pas de deux partners?”

Grantaire sizes them up mentally. “I don’t see why not.”

“The next thing we should do,” Bossuet declares from behind them, a pillar of smoke smouldering up from the oven, “- is definitely open a restaurant.”

  


“Aphrodite has spirited you away from the duel so you don’t lose it and get fucking skewered by Menelaus,” Grantaire explains to Paris-Marius, shifting into a croisé position on demi-pointe to imitate pointe as far as he can in these shoes, “and Jehan will be here to do this part, but for the time being, I’m your Aphrodite.”

Courfeyrac is practically pissing himself at that statement, over from where a couple of dancers are limbering up at the back of the room. Given that Courfeyrac is in the dashing combination of too-short booty shorts, bare legs and stripey legwarmers, Grantaire kind of feels that it shouldn’t be him being laughed at - but, on the other hand, he figures he is possibly a left-field Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty. Because Enjolras is also warming up over there today, Grantaire dug down into the bottom of his t-shirt drawer to produce the black tank top he is so proudly wearing. It’s not one he actually remembers buying in the first place, but also Eponine insists it never was and never will be hers, so Grantaire’s drawer adopted it. Emblazoned across the chest above the silhouette of a dancer, it proclaims in silver: Odile with it. _Swan Lake_ style. It also sheds glitter. Sadly, the only headband he can find is plain black, but he’s wearing it anyway. Enjolras, on the other hand, isn’t trying at all. Not even a glimpse of that glorious bandana.

(Eponine is, as usual, is sticking to her black leotard. Marius is in the traditional white-shirt-black-tights combination of every ballet school boy. Cosette, who is pacing herself through a port de bras exercise, getting ready to learn Helen’s part in this scene, has left her cardigan on the side, but is still in a floaty, mulberry-coloured wrap around skirt.)

“I know,” Grantaire tells Courfeyrac gravely, “But I just can’t help it. I woke up like this.”

 

Once he has gotten Paris and Helen’s entrances worked out, he steps in and out to demonstrate each of their parts until they can trace it back for him, changing up moves when they feel too off. He prattles on about the scene as he performs the rough steps of each part of the pas de deux, working out what comes next in part by trying to translate the characters’ thought and feeling into a physical representation, and the rest remains rooted in the music, in intuition.

“Paris is back from the battlefield, and he’s expecting to fall right into Helen’s arms - she’s supposed to be the only one who _won’t_ judge him - but no shit, she’s not pleased to see him either! She was watching that battle fully expecting him to die at the hands of her former husband, so she keeps evading Paris -” Grantaire demonstrates what Cosette should be doing next, supporting himself in an arabesque with his hand on Marius’ shoulder, and then circling around to do so on Marius’ other side, always moving out of Marius’ embrace. “Paris is still infatuated, of course - his love was induced by Aphrodite, so it needs to be half puppy-love, and half craving, desperate - he was just close to dying for her. But Helen,” - he pulls Cosette in and steps into Paris’ shoes now, working out how to coax her to him while she keeps flitting away - “Helen is _miserable_. She’s been weeping, and she literally hates everything right now. None of this was ever her choice, remember: she was stolen away from her life to be Paris’ wife, to be an object of desire and little more. That’s ancient Greece for you. She has never been free to make her own choices, has never been in control of her own life. And what’s her life worth to her? She’s confined to the Trojan citadel, and she’s a major reason for its destruction. Her former husband just fought her current husband, and either one of them could have died. She just looked out across the Achaean army, and couldn’t spot her brothers, and so imagined that they might not have come to fight for her. Everywhere she looks, she sees people who are going to die, and there is nothing she can do for them. She can hate Paris for his cowardice, can hate Aphrodite for forcing this upon her, but in the end she can’t help it. She feels to blame. So she hates herself for being so powerless.”

Somehow, somewhere halfway through his speech, he has made _himself_ miserable, and to restore the tone he had before, he finishes off his sequence with Cosette by suddenly dipping her, as if this is a ballroom dance. Despite her surprise, she manages a begrudging grin, and by the time Grantaire has let her go the room seems relaxed and light again.

 

“Alright, now both of you together,” he calls, shooing them into place as he steps back to survey it from the front. “From the arabesques.”

He glances over his shoulder to see how the others are getting on: they’re back to warming up, and Courfeyrac has clearly started regaling Enjolras and Eponine a story of some kind. But Eponine looks oddly wooden, like she's not listening, her chin still tilted towards Marius and Cosette.

Grantaire shoots her a perky smile she doesn't see, and when he looks back at the pas de deux, Marius and Cosette are already floundering. 

Shit, this looks - shit. Absolutely shit. 

Where to start? Grantaire starts at the beginning, trying to keep a straight face. "Start on the left there, not your right. Don't rush that bit... And more drive, Marius, seriously - you're supposed to be seducing her, right?" 

(It's looking a little like Bo-Peep and a lost lamb right now.)

Marius fumbles his hold on Cosette again and peels away from her, face burning red. 

“I’m doing everything all wrong,” he apologises, burying his face in his hands as if to clear his head, and block out the rest of the room.

“We’ll get it,” Cosette offers, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Forget the rest of them," Grantaire advises Marius, who keeps shooting glances towards the rest of them at the back. He shoos them off to do some of their own stuff with a hand gesture, and focuses again on the two of them, taking a different tack. "Take a deep breath. It's new. It's allowed to look crappy at the beginning."

He adjusts a few more things, and then suggests, "From the start?"

They're still in too early a stage for music, but at least this time there's more flow. Besides, partnered choreography obviously doesn’t just click into place without communication... but Marius and Cosette both seem oddly hypersensitive about this, and every fractional touch is accompanied by eyes flickering up to each other, fleeting looks that are lost in every next breath. He doesn't know how either of them have made it into professional ballet working with partners (and Cosette's partnered _Apollo_ himself just fine) when this is worse than awkward primary-school kid disco dances, and weirder - it's like they've never touched another human being before. 

And then the weird turns weirdly _good_? Grantaire had a whole reel of comments to interrupt them with a moment ago, but they curdle on his tongue as the two of them carry on, oblivious.

The steps aren't perfect, but something has clicked, and they're already more in tune with each other. In fact, there is something celestial and almost - _erotic?_ \- about it, and that’s when Grantaire decides to bleach his brain out.

Eventually, he glances over his shoulder to see whether he’s the only one actually _seeing_ this, but he isn’t. Courfeyrac's chatter has faded away, and no one's practicing: they are all leaning against the wall, just watching. Courfeyrac’s eyes are wide in surprise, and Enjolras’ brow is furrowed thoughtfully, though he is otherwise intent, motionless, statuesque. Eponine is frozen too, but Grantaire can see - maybe because he knows her well - that her bottom lip is trembling. 

 

 

“Hang on, I’ll just be a minute,” he says, sweeping around the room to finish setting everything to rights, when practice is over and he's sent everyone else off, offering bemused praise to the pas de deux pair of the day.

Eponine doesn’t say anything and doesn’t look up, just continues to stuff her shoes back into her bag.

“Hey, is everything -” Grantaire starts, but she is striding to the door. It slams shut before he can finish his question.

Swinging his bag over his shoulder, he hurtles across the room and down the stairs after her. He is slowed down struggling with the stupid lock, but she’s still within sight when he can pick up his pace again, and he crosses the road to fall in beside her on the pavement.

“Well, someone’s in a mood,” he says, because what is tact. It’s the wrong response anyway, because she pulls ahead, wordless, her stare boring a hole into the distance. He grasps her by the arm, trying to keep up or slow her down. “Seriously, what did I do?”

He half expects her to go for the standard, ‘Christ, not everything’s about you, R’, but instead Eponine rounds on him.

“Seriously?” She says incredulously, something in her eyes sparking, in a worse way than her baseline of murderous irritation.

Grantaire’s shoulders shrug by the merest fraction as a signal that he honestly doesn’t know what her issue is. She catches it, and a laugh tears out of her, a scathing trill.

“Her? And she’s suddenly _Helen_ ?” She expels, wrenching her arm back to her side. “For fuck’s _sake_ , R.”

This is about Cosette being Helen? Grantaire is sure that he filled her in on the updated schedules after Joly did his timetabling, so this can’t be _news_ to her. Plus, he genuinely tells her everything, every shitty detail about his life. “I told you about that, that she had to swap with -”

She brushes off his answer with a sharp hand gesture to cut it out, but Grantaire persists. “Uh, ‘Ponine, you didn’t even want Helen,” he puts in next, hoping that radiating confusion, dim-wittedness, will see him off the hook. “Helen’s a smaller, less intense role, it’s not -” _nearly as badass_ , and not at _all_ what she wanted? But he doesn’t get to finish that sentence either.

“Well thank you, Mr. Artistic Director, I had _no_ idea -” Eponine snaps, now fuming too much to force more words out, and Grantaire wonders if he’s read that wrong, whether there’s a different reason why she’s angry.  

“She willingly auditioned, what was I supposed to do?” If Eponine didn’t want Cosette in this, she could have vetoed her when they were doing casting, surely she realises this.

The fact that she ignores him entirely rattles him further. He wracks his brain, letting out a slower breath as he chews over the thought. “Please tell me this isn’t about _Marius_ ,” he adds hesitantly, grimacing.

She’s still seething; she’s not going to answer. She won’t look at him, either. When she finally un-grits her teeth, it is only to announce brusquely that she is going to pick up Gavroche from his friend's house. Grantaire supposes, as she leaves him loitering there, that he ought to be grateful she has said as much as that.

He expects she’ll still be back at the flat within the hour. Grantaire would go straight back, but it feels sensible - and a good strategy for self-preservation - to give her some space. Gavroche is impervious, at least: the two of them never argue like most sets of siblings Grantaire knows do. Maybe it’s the age difference, maybe it’s the shit they’ve been through, maybe their parents are to blame. Because they bicker, hell, of course, but they’re also first to each other’s defence, no matter what. They’d burn bodies for each other.

If it came to that, he’d burn bodies for the both of them, too.  


He takes a detour along the riverbank instead, weaving amongst tourists for a while before turning off towards the back streets that will lead him back to his borough. 

 

 

When he gets back he rummages for a snack in the kitchen, and that’s where they cross paths next. She’s reheating leftovers for herself and Gavroche, and he sneaks glances at her whenever she checks the countdown on the microwave.

“It’s nothing.” She says shortly, reading the gaze he’s been trying to hide from her in an instant. Grantaire nods, and retreats to his room. In a while, the shower starts running, and it stays on for a long time.

 

It doesn’t come out until they’ve been sitting wordlessly in front of a TV show for half an hour, Grantaire having joined her on her bed after Gavroche’s light is out for the night. He had knocked tentatively at her door, already half-set on going to bed himself and not expecting her to be in any more of a mood to talk; but there she had been, perched on her pillows in her pyjamas, butterfly stretching, laptop open in front of her. She hadn’t said anything, just inclined her head in what he had taken to be an invitation, not entirely sure whether it was going to be a truce or a round two. Nevertheless, he’d clambered onto the bed, and hadn’t said anything either, just let the show run on without paying much attention at all.  

There’s no smooth segue to the topic, just the jangling of the adverts they can’t skip, reaching a fever pitch that has to eventually break.

“It’s not Cosette,” she says. Grantaire glances at her in surprise, then looks away again. Her grimace seems to suggest otherwise, but she continues, and the flatness of her voice belies the effort he can feel emanating from her to get the words out. “Not her _fault,_ anyway.”

For once, he keeps his mouth shut, waiting.

“I just - I wanted to have _one_ thing, one thing in my whole _life_ \- that’s mine, you know? Just _something_ that’s for fun. That’s easy. Not a fucking competition, not something that can get taken away.”

Slowly, he nods. Guilt rises up through his ribcage like a flood.

“And don't start, because I know how stupid that sounds. Because the _Iliad_ ’s not mine at all anyway, it’s _yours_ . And there are already a load of people from work involved - Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Enjolras,  _Marius_ \- so I don’t know why I had to blame _her_ , but,” she rolls her eyes, “I didn’t think I’d have to see her all the time?”

Yeah, maybe it is an irrational reaction. But it’s honest.

“It’s jealousy, probably. Ugh,” she mutters, kneading her temples, “it’s fucking awful. Like, she’s never been anything but nice to me, but every time I _look_ at her it’s a giant reality check staring me in the face, that it doesn’t matter what I do - there’s always going to be someone better than me. It doesn’t matter that I try, that I’d break my neck for it - there’s someone else out there who can drop in and be more naturally talented or more _suited_ for the role or _just what_ the company’s looking for. It just makes me think, like why do I even try?”

Grantaire reaches over to squeeze her shoulder. “Don’t ask me. I never try, and look where it’s gotten me,” he teases, gently. Eponine makes a noise in her throat, a quiet snort.

“You’re right about one thing,” she returns, pressing her shoulder up into his hand. “I never fucking wanted to be _Helen_. I’ve got enough self-loathing for myself already, I definitely don’t need her help.”

He gives a dry laugh. “You and me both, pal.”

He wishes he had any idea how to make it better for her.

“I think, fact is, there's always going to be someone better," Grantaire reasons, trying to string out why things are the way they are, "than anyone, any of us. I think everyone thinks that, you know? We all have our creative bogeymen, with their fucking standards, making us feel like shit without trying." God, why is the universe trying to make _him_ the motivational one? He's not cut out for this. "I guess, just 'cause someone else out there is good doesn't cheapen what you do." 

"And this will still be special,” he insists. “It’ll still be fun. Probably? And please, it’s yours as much as it’s mine. I blame you for facilitating, don’t think I don’t. You were casting consultant already, you’re on the executive team. _And_ ,” he smirks, “you have to put up with me for every second of this madness, which is a fate that deserves to be reserved for those in a circle of hell somewhere, to be honest, so you’re kind of more in it than everyone else put together. I’d probably literally be dead already if you weren’t here, you get that.”

There is a tiny chance that she looks a little more cheerful.

“Yeah, probably.”

“I’m sorry I’m a such a pain to live with,” Eponine adds, suddenly sincere.

“Oh, the worst,” Grantaire grins, still not feeling as though he’s done enough to improve her situation at all. “Despite her utter lack of moral reprehensibility, I can boot Cosette out if it makes you feel better,” he offers, and he’s not really joking. “I could cancel Helen’s role completely, if you like. Hell, Paris can get cut too. The Greeks can just - I don’t know, go beach-camping in Turkey and decide they’re going to take Troy on a whim. That’s cool with me.”

“You’re an idiot.” Eponine answers. “But thanks. I’ll grow up and get over it, I guess.”

She pauses, and Grantaire snickers. And then, in a very small voice, she says, “I’m going to forget about him, too." It’s as close to an outright confession as she has come. She bites her lip, and the statement hangs in the air between them. "It isn't even him, you know? Like, it might just be the _idea_ of him..." She shrugs the weight off her shoulders. "It's time, anyway. It's fucking time already. I'm over it.”

“Maybe I should follow your lead,” Grantaire says finally, pondering that idea. Eponine side-eyes him. “What?” He counters. “I _do_ know a lost cause when I see one. I'd best get this one gone and over with sooner rather than later, hadn't I?”

She just shakes her head, and goes back to her butterfly stretches.

Grantaire grimaces, and lets his eyes drift back to the television programme playing on her laptop. Considering he didn’t know what was going on in it _before_ that interlude, he figures that it’s too late to work it out for himself.  

“So, uh... what show is this?” He asks, and she laughs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, this was a long one! I probably should have split it up, but oh well...
> 
> As ever, I'm _so_ grateful for your comments: they are the _best_ kind of encouragement, and are definitely already making nanowrimo worth the struggle  <3 I'm (cautiously) aiming for this to end up being about ten chapters, but I do have to warn you that the updating pace might get a little slower in coming weeks, given term starts up again and I have a dissertation to get writing. I'd still like to aim for every other weekend or so, but we'll see! Thanks for your patience & happy new year, everyone!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire gets in some one-on-one ~~heckling~~ rehearsal with Enjolras, encounters another familiar face from the past, and the panic finally catches up to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (cw for description of panic/anxiety attacks)

“But you’re still coming this afternoon?” he asks, over the phone. “There’s a lot of Achilles stuff to get through.”

“I have a couple of hours, so technically, yes.” Enjolras says, on the other end. “But I have to be back at the studios for a - workshop at the same time every Wednesday, so I might have misjudged. I’m more than willing to come, but by the time I get to the theatre there may not be enough time to get anything done.”

Damn. That’s frustrating, more for the upset to Joly’s careful scheduling and the setback to the choreography than to Grantaire personally. The idea of spending an hour or two alone in the full force of Enjolras’ company has been niggling at him for the past few days, to be honest. And if his sigh is exhaled out loud in relief rather than disappointment, well, shit, it’s not his fault that Enjolras is an anomaly of his generation, one of those rare people on the planet who doesn’t seem to deal in texts when he has the option of calling directly.

“Well, it’s alright,” Grantaire reasons, swaying idly on the corner, halted en route to the Arcadia. He aims for indifference. “Jehan was never going to be able to make these times in the first place, so I’m not sure how far we’d be able to get with Achilles’ sections anyway.” It’s true, there is obviously going to have to be interaction with Patroclus... but Achilles also has a fair amount of solo work, so it probably _is_ a shame.  

Enjolras hums, and Grantaire pictures him frowning. “I’m really sorry. I’d suggest that you could come to the studios, and we could try and find a room somewhere here, but - you know, they’re not usually keen on offering their space to outsiders or external projects. I could sneak you in -”

“Nah. No thanks.” Grantaire shoots that down without a beat of hesitation. Never mind getting caught out by the company for leeching off their studio space: the last place he wants to be is back in one of those old rooms. He tilts his head away from the phone for a moment, considering. “You’re at the studios now, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well...” he says, squeezing his eyes shut to brace himself for this. “You could come to my place instead, if you want. It’s not a proper studio or anything, but there’s a bit of space in the flat. Eponine practises there. But it’s a lot closer to you than the Arcadia is - it’s only like a ten, fifteen minute walk from there to here. I guess that could leave us enough time?”

“Okay,” he hears Enjolras say, “great. What’s the address?”

Grantaire gives it to him.

“I’ll be there in a quarter of an hour, then,” he offers promptly.

“See you then, Goldilocks,” Grantaire says, sing-song, as he turns on his heel to head back home.

 

Grantaire meets him at the front door of his building - the buzzer to let people in from upstairs is a temperamental piece of crap, anyway - and he’s only been loitering outside for a few minutes when Enjolras appears on the street.

“The stairs stink a bit,” Grantaire says as they head up to the apartment, pointing out the obvious with a hint of apology. It’s clearly not on par with Combeferre and Enjolras’ sleek building: this is all crumbling old brick and mould.  

“Just a little,” Enjolras agrees, his voice echoing in the stairwell.

“Yeah, it’s the downstairs neighbours. They smoke a literal shit-ton of weed. ‘Course, the landlord’s never heard any complaints about that -” (especially not from Grantaire, who was in the habit of joining them for a while there) “- but you know, too much ‘thumping’ from us and he gets sixty.” He rolls his eyes. “We’re not that bad, but no one seems to want to believe the ballet story. I don’t know what _else_ they think we’re doing up there, but we’re always tramping up and down here in tights, so -” he gestures down at himself in demonstration.

Enjolras laughs. “I wouldn’t worry,” he says wryly. “Combeferre’s limited to the keyboard and headphones for his three A.M. breakthroughs. One too many times the neighbours threatened to smash up his piano.”  

“Oh, yeah,” Grantaire adds, fishing out his keys, “I meant to ask. How did you and Combeferre wind up sharing a flat?” It’s a small world, it seems, too small for it to be coincidence that Ferre has dabbled in the ballet world with half their friends. And Enjolras hasn’t been here long; wasn’t that before his time?

“Mm. Well, by the time I moved to start with the ballet here, I had still only sorted out a temporary situation. So I asked around a bit, was checking out a couple of places... until someone found out that Ferre was looking for a new flatmate, and introduced us. I’ll give you three guesses who.”

Grantaire snorts. It doesn’t take much to work it out; who else knows every single thing that goes on around him? He shakes his head. “Trust Courf.”

Enjolras leans in confidentially towards him as Grantaire unlocks the door. “He actually tried to _bribe_ me into taking Combeferre up on it before someone else could. Practically forced me into an agreement: because he found me the place, I have an obligation to invite him over once a month. Or once a fortnight? I don’t know what it was, but it doesn’t matter, he might as well be living there himself.” Enjolras juts his lip out in a feigned pout, but there’s a knowing gleam in his eye. “Sometimes he comes by and forgets to say hello to me at all.”

He bursts into a laugh. “Incredible.” Well played, Courf. Well played.

He waves Enjolras in before him, pulling the front door up behind him and dithering over whether or not to turn on the light in the dance room. There’s still an orange afternoon glow falling through the windows, so he doesn’t yet, only kicks off his shoes and pauses by the kitchen. “Can I get you anything?” He asks, jerking a thumb in that direction.

“No, thanks.” Enjolras says, turning slowly around the room to survey it. He gestures at the mirrored walls. “I like this.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire agrees with a shrug. “I mean, _I_ don’t use it.” Not until the _Iliad_ , anyway. “But it’s kind of cool, yeah. Are you already warmed up?”

Enjolras nods. “I left right after my last session, and the walk was good for that.” He shrugs off his outer layers and changes his shoes.  

With the workshop or whatever it is he has to attend, they still have limited time, but it’s Enjolras’ attitude that really forces his hand. He doesn’t feel like he has the power to go too off-piste, not when he has that unwavering attention, alert and ready and relentless.

So they plunge into the scene headfirst. It is not one directly transferred from the _Iliad_ , but an amalgamation of a few passages in order to better explain the situation the Greek army faces, after the rift between Achilles and Agamemnon. The rest of the army is going off to fight, but Achilles refuses to outright. He will be questioned by Patroclus and then by Thetis, and his answer to them both will unfold in this short solo, composed by Combeferre into something terse and tense, vibrating with restless indignation.

And yet, Achilles’ anger is still just simmering: the first two acts of the ballet will be the slow build to the eruption of rage and the devastation he wreaks later. Here, he confines him to small, tightly-focused movements, launching into a series of beaten steps, jetés battus and entrechats, the upper body still and poised while the feet are frenzied. It requires all of his control and concentration to demonstrate; it’s only when he finally sinks into the floor with both feet again that he can pull himself out of it to observe Enjolras’ reaction.

Enjolras is watching him intently. Grantaire scrunches up his face, sheepish.

“Yeah?” He asks.

Enjolras offers his appraisal with a direct nod, and they run through it again, making clarifications here and there. “The entrechat after the echappé - was that a deux?”

“Quatre, I think. Whatever you can fit in the music. Do you need to see it again, or do you want to try?”  

“I’ll give it a go.” 

Enjolras can pick up the steps, no problem. Technically, he’s a dream. Worried that he’ll throw him off - or pollute the naturalness of it, or something - Grantaire takes a consciously hands-off approach with him, and directs from afar.  

“Okay, try the bourrée dessous before you go into the glissades. And then go higher on the assemblé.”

And that’s enough - Enjolras is capable of harnessing his determination, remaining rational, consistently able to adapt to new suggestions. To work through new material or mental blocks by just - _thinking_ about it more, at the point when so often people are ready to fizzle up in frustration. In that way, he’s insane.

But even when the steps are perfect, that doesn’t mean Enjolras is automatically connected. Emotionally connected. He _can_ be - Grantaire hasn’t forgotten that _Apollo_ performance - but it isn’t a given. Sometimes it has to be provoked.

And Grantaire’s hands-off choreographing in this case hasn’t stopped him from his usual heckling, and he has taken to heckling _Enjolras_ like a duck to water. He’s already so practised that he can sometimes do it in just a few words, even in front of everyone; it’s a talent, truly. Once in awhile - when he spots that finger of his going the slightest bit rogue (and by slightest, he means by a millimetre, for a split-second) - all he really needs to do to be comprehended is cough, “Finger”, and whether it’s under his breath or not Enjolras always hears it. He has given up protesting that _there’s nothing wrong with it, Grantaire_ and has resigned himself to flipping him the bird every time. ( _Fondly_ flipping him the bird. He’s sure there’s some affection in it.)

Given about eighty percent of what he says and does in rehearsals is low-key designed to annoy Enjolras, Grantaire has figured out it can be an effective way to fire up Achilles’ perpetual infuriation.   

“Try it en dehors again,” he tells Enjolras now, leaning against the mirror wall as he scrutinises a pirouette sequence he has just put together. En dehors meaning outward; Enjolras turns away from his supporting leg, spins in the direction his knee is pointing. It looks okay, but he squints thoughtfully.

“And dedans.” Enjolras readjusts his preparatory position, and this time spins inwards, towards his supporting leg. That also looks okay.

Grantaire scratches his head. “Hmm. Dehors again?”

Enjolras executes another perfect pirouette.

“No, dedans. And make it a triple.”

“Are you actually trying to make a decision, or are you literally just trying to make me dizzy?” Enjolras protests, pausing in a fourth position plié to narrow his eyes.

Grantaire grins a shit-eating grin. “Why, is it working?”

His chin juts out stubbornly. “No.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Well, take it from the top, and I guess we’ll see.”

And there it is: pure indignation.

 

“Alright, what is it?” He pipes up, as he carries in a glass of water for each of them, observing Enjolras, doing some cool-down exercises, cross-legged on the floor and clearly brooding over something. He drops down onto the floor as well, opposite him, and passes him his water.

“Hm?” Enjolras says, dragged out of his contemplation. “Oh - I was just thinking about Achilles.”

Grantaire huffs a laugh. Should he even be surprised?

“What about him?”  

Oh, Achilles. This is where people like to laugh about him and the childish tantrum he’s throwing, that he’s nothing more than a huge drama queen.  

Apparently Enjolras has the same complaints.

“He’s just so -” Enjolras makes a noise of frustration. “So _selfish_.”

“Why, ‘cause he won’t fight for Agamemnon?”  

“No, because he won’t fight with the rest of the Greeks. I understand that he hates Agamemnon, but -”

“It’s more than _that_ ,” Grantaire defends. “Agamemnon’s abusing his power as king and commander, and belittling Achilles, his best warrior, in front of the _entire_ Achaean army. None of whom care to take Achilles’ side against Agamemnon, by the way, so why shouldn’t Achilles feel betrayed by them all? By taking Briseis, Agamemnon broken the rules of war prizes. Of course Achilles is angry about that. Of course he’s got to stand up to him.”  

“I mean, I _agree_ with that. Of _course_ you have to stand up against authorities - but like that? At the cost of the Greeks being doomed to lose without him? Why can’t he be the bigger man?”

“Because his honour is all he has.” Grantaire returns. “No one wants to die for nothing.”

“But how can he abandon his people like that, in the end? Where’s the honour in that? Whether he feels betrayed or not, letting the rest of the Greeks _die_ for nothing while he sits around waiting for glory to be returned to him, when instead he could be out there -”

“Marching to his death, afraid none of it will have been worth it, because he came to fight and now he might not even earn the glory he was promised?”

“But he knows he’s destined to die; he made that choice as soon as he set foot in Troy. If going into battle again, if sacrificing himself for his people isn’t honourable enough to win him his useless glory, then I don’t know what -”

“You don’t understand,” Grantaire refutes, thoughts tumbling around his head as he tries to explain it. “I’m not saying he’s not selfish. I’m not saying it isn’t shitty to sit by and twiddle your thumbs while people - your people - are dying, to let everyone down for your own sake. But this is a different time, this is Homeric Greece, and those men are dying valiant deaths, going into battle _believing_ , as sure as they can be of what they’re going to get. But he - he’s got so much riding on the decision he’s made, so why can’t he be afraid that maybe he’s made the wrong choice? Maybe he _should_ have chosen life after all. He’s come to fight and now everything’s going wrong for him, and suddenly maybe all he’ll get is to die _without_ being remembered, or being remembered _wrong_ , whatever he does. But he’s made his choice, it’s too late for him to go back. Listen, people only see what they want to: the pissing contest with Agamemnon; the sulking, the crying. Good on them if they think they could be better, braver, more selfless people. But we’re talking about life and death and destiny here, and he wasn’t much more than a teenager when he got sucked into all this, and guess what? Whatever he’s trying to be, he’s only human. Some of us are shitty sometimes. We all have to make choices. So he makes his choice, and he suffers for it - he loses what he loves, _who_ he loves most - and that’s why it’s not just an epic, it’s a goddamn tragedy.”   

As soon as he stops speaking, he realises just how dry his throat is, so he swallows, hard. Eventually he can’t delay it any longer: his gaze drifts tentatively up towards Enjolras’ face.

If he is expecting to be hit with an impassioned counter-argument, he’s utterly wrong. Enjolras doesn’t say anything at all, just locks eyes with him, soft but searching. They sit like that a while, in gentle silence and to Grantaire’s general bewilderment as he tries to understand what exactly is going on with Enjolras’ expression.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Enjolras swears suddenly, which startles Grantaire out of this reverie and into a laugh. He watches Enjolras dart over to his bag and dive for his phone, looking back up with wide eyes. “I’m late!”

“Shit,” Grantaire answers, with feeling. “How late?”

“I should have left fifteen minutes ago late,” Enjolras says, running a harried hand through his hair and snatching up his things. There’s nothing Grantaire can do now - clearly Enjolras doesn’t take being late lightly - so, once he has scrambled up, he falls back and holds the door open to usher him out when he’s ready.

Enjolras gives him the briefest of nods as he hurtles unceremoniously towards the stairs. “Take the first turning on your right!” Grantaire yells after him, over the sound of his resounding footsteps. “It’s a shortcut.”

He waits until he hears the building’s front door slam before he lets his door fall shut.

 

Grantaire sets off for the Arcadia before Eponine and Gavroche do, because it’s a Sunday rehearsal, and he’s not going to screw with Eponine’s one day to lie in. He feels bad enough hauling everyone in the cast - and Joly - in on everyone’s day off every week, but worse that Gavroche has to tag along all the time. He’s fairly certain the kid knows every square foot of the theatre like the back of his hand by now. He does wander in and out of the rehearsals themselves, and Grantaire has offered to give him a part in it, if he wants. Gavroche is still debating who he wants to be.

Once he has set up inside in the rehearsal studio that leads off from the backstage side of the theatre, he runs through a warm-up and core workout of his own, today with some centre exercises, side planks and push-ups. He’s still not at the level he once was - and maybe he won’t be; a lot has changed since he was twenty-one - but his stamina and strength have heartily improved.  

Now, with his t-shirt sufficiently sweat-soaked (today it’s a lurid pink monstrosity bearing the slogan: tutu much attitude), he heads down the stairs and hallway to prop the stage door open for when the rest of them arrive. Spotting a pair of people standing around outside already, Grantaire swings out to join them. One of them is Montparnasse, perfectly poised against the wall, hair elegantly tousled and cigarette in hand. There are dark circles under his eyes, either bruised with makeup or because he hasn’t slept at all.

Grantaire doesn’t immediately recognise the woman standing with him, but she’s in a long coat and heels and definitely not in the _Iliad_ cast, so there’s no reason why she would be standing outside the stage door of the unused theatre, beneath the fading ARCADIA lettering. Montparnasse is wearing his usual indolent expression while the woman talks, which doesn’t help him at all in figuring out whether she’s a - friend? acquaintance? associate? - of his or she has literally just stopped to ask him directions.

From where he has frozen in the doorway, he catches the tail end of a question from her, a probing, “- and what are you working on?”

The bottom of his stomach drops out.

Montparnasse, at least, is Montparnasse. “Things,” he says, and takes another drag.

Grantaire knows who she is, after all. His primal instinct at this point is to back away and barricade the doors, but it’s too late for that, because she is already turning towards him. _Alright, Grantaire_ , he tells himself. Fight, not flight. He steps further outside; Montparnasse scowls a hello and stalks off, as though he has been inconveniencing himself for Grantaire’s sake all along.

“Aha, Grantaire! What a surprise to see you again!” The woman says, not looking surprised in the least. With one hand, she tucks a strand of dyed blonde hair behind her ear; in the other, she’s holding a voice recorder.

“Long time no see, Claire,” he offers casually.

“Claudia,” she corrects. He remembers, but shows no inclination of having heard. “Grantaire, I hope I can grab you for a minute, I would love to discuss -”

“But I’m sure you’re not here for _me_ ,” he says, “it being a surprise, and all.”

She simpers at him, hardly dissuaded by his glibness. “Well, I take it you’re the one to credit with putting on this new show you have here - the _Iliad_ , isn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer.

“That's what I've heard. And that _is_ a surprise,” she remarks. “It’s been such a long time since we’ve talked, what - five years?” Six, actually, and as far as he can remember it they had maybe a one-sided conversation once or twice and the rest of the time she made her career out of talking _about_ him in her Arts  & Culture features in one of the city’s newspapers. “Tell me, Grantaire, what’s changed?”

“Not a lot, apparently,” he says sardonically. Just like old fucking times.  

He remembers Claudia’s name all too well; she’s one of the people who hounded him for months, left weekly voicemails, sent him numerous offers for interviews after he left, at least a couple times a year, obviously desperate to be the one who got the scoop about his abrupt departure when eventually he opened up.

He’d say the joke’s on her, because he has never chosen to publicly broadcast his reasons. But media and journalism are mighty beasts, and they can subsist on rumour just as well. In the end, saying nothing was just as bad: it gave them power to their own perceptions, an unblocked path to whatever kind of truth they wanted to spin. What was it Claudia said about him?     

“So, how long have you been considering doing this?” She asks next, undeterred. “Have you always known this was how you wanted to return to the ballet world?”

Grantaire grits his teeth to stop himself from explaining that, as a matter of fact, he never wanted to be a part of the ballet world again. This is a losing game, whichever way he looks at it. So he can’t - he won’t play ball.

She raises her eyebrows at his pointed silence, and then offers him a knowing nod, as if she has gleaned something from it anyway.

“Been in contact with your old company at all?”

Grantaire scoffs, his eyes widened incredulously. Why the _fuck_ would he want to do that?

“Been to a new hairdresser?” He returns. “Looks fancy.”

She ploughs on. “Do you regret leaving the way you did? So abruptly? If you could go back, would you -”

“Yeah, probably for the best,” Grantaire cuts in loudly, “because your last haircut sucked.”  

Claudia blinks, but her smile is plastered on - she’s not finished digging. “Can you tell me anything about what your last memories of the stage were?”

What kind of a question is that, anyway? He wasn’t in an accident; it didn’t take him _hitting his head_ to leave... she makes it sound like he’s recovering from prolonged amnesia. Or maybe she’s taken up the torch for whoever first described Grantaire’s ballet life as if he were in a damaging drug haze for his whole professional career.

“No, I can’t,” he says, breezily. Amnesia it’ll be.

“So you’re moving _on_ , I see,” she says, all-too-friendly, “Moving forward. Are you worried at all?” She continues. “That perhaps you’ve bitten off more than you can chew? What was it that made you think you could take on creating a whole ballet yourself? It’s not, after all, something you have done _before_. I imagine it has its own challenges beyond those of merely performing.”

He inhales carefully. They’ll think what they want, whatever he says.

“Well, I’m sure expectation will be through the _roof_ to see what you come up with. Would you say that it’s coming along well? Do you think you are suited to a more directorial role? Does it feel different to you, now? Do your dancers here believe in your work?”

All the blood is gone from his face. She waits.

At last, from over her shoulder, he sees Marius and Enjolras coming round the corner.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says, unclenching his jaw at last to shoot her a blithe but distant smile. “I’ve gotta go.”  

He turns away from the reporter, beckons them to the door in relief.

“Enjolras! And Marius Pont _mercy_!” Claudia exclaims. “How _exciting_ to see you both involved.”

The two of them shoot her confounded looks as they head inside, leaving her standing there with her recorder. They both stare at him next. Grantaire avoids their gaze.

 

It’s fucking lucky Joly is here to tell people what to be getting on with, because Grantaire almost can’t remember which scene they’re going through. Expectation through the roof, she said. More than he can chew.

Grantaire remembers her articles now. Not even the most scathing of the crop. There was worse condescension out there, more pompousness and diatribe: some talk had made him out to be some grand rebel, breaking rules for the sake of them. Occasionally someone would suggest he had a noble cause, but mostly they drew him in it for the fame, in it for the dama. Walking out for sheer shock value. Hey, he’d known there would be the people who expected him to be back the next day, in a strop or on his knees, pleading to be reinstated in his lead role, back to reclaim what he had turned his nose up at. The next day, or the next month, the next year: they kept at it, convinced that he was a pest, a parasite, the worst kind of bad rash - always going to come back.

The other camp, simply put, had said that he was far too young. Just a _child,_ they’d cried out, and blamed the company for the resulting mess. He had been much too young to be put under such pressure so fast, and it was no wonder that he couldn’t hack it. Only just twenty-one, and already at principal level when most of his ballet school peers were still making up the corps. People imagined that it would have been different if they had just taken it more slowly. That maybe he missed classes because the material was too difficult for him, or that all the attention he was getting was responsible for his breakdown. Too immature, too inexperienced, not ready.   

Claudia... at least she’d had an angle. The core tenet of her hypothesis was fear. She had said that Grantaire was scared. Scared that he’d... reached his peak already. Done the best that he could do, done all that he was capable of. The reviews that had flooded out the next morning were evidence that backed up her theory, she had said, extolling his qualities as a dancer, heralding him as one of the new greats. That all the acclaim from his latest and most breathtaking role was new and alarming expectation for him, and that he had feared he would never be able to dance as well again. With only downwards to fall - with the danger of becoming an Icarus, she’d said - he’d decided to go out on a high.

Fucking Claudia, and her poetic insights. Fucking everyone, and their speculation. Grantaire had already been long gone from that life by the time the morning reviews came out after that opening night, and she was wrong. He hadn’t gone out on that high - hadn’t affixed himself to a pedestal to leave everyone some kind of lasting echo of his greatness, bloody hell. He hadn’t cared where he was, hadn’t meant to leave a trace. He had wanted to go. That was all. Wanted to end it. He had jumped. 

So what _is_ he doing here? Is it any different now, really?

“What do you think?” Marius’ voice feels far away, muffled somehow.

Grantaire might be underwater, seconds away from drowning.

“Grantaire?”

“Hm?” He tries to focus on the here and now, on Marius, the studio, the steps, but the whole scene is swimming before his eyes, hazy and nebulous.

“Um, what am I doing?”

Cosette is beside him, looking equally expectant.

“I don’t know.” Grantaire says simply, watching their expressions reshuffle into confusion or concern.

Whatever had been going through his head has floated away. It’s gone. He is nothing but blankness, a blinding arctic wilderness.

A laugh tears out of him. “I have no fucking idea.”

“Is everything alright?” Someone else asks now. It might have come from Courfeyrac, but he is exchanging a look with Cosette.

Grantaire shrugs and shuts his eyes. There’s still only whiteness everywhere. His own limbs might not exist anymore.

“Grantaire? What’s going on?” Someone else says.

He forces himself back to the present for a second, just long enough to offer a terse shrug. But as soon as he is rooted again, reality crashes down on him. A pressure change has been effected: his throat constricts; the air in his lungs is suddenly compressed; his eardrums are bursting. He has to... he has to get out of here.

Without the capacity to say another word, he shakes his head and turns on his heel, stumbles blindly towards the stairs and the door and keeps moving, keeps going until he can find somewhere to breathe.

 

His heart is battering in his ribcage, amplifying every footstep that pounds against the pavement. He doesn’t know where he’s going. Out of nowhere, all he can think of is... the Little Mermaid. The one from Hans Christian Andersen’s fairytale, whose human transformation is torturous, who feels sharp knives slicing open her feet with every step she takes on land. He imagines this - vividly, so vividly - that piercing steel with every step, and it is so excruciating to consider that he finds himself slowing down. His breathing ratchets down in sync until he can count down in his inhaled and exhaled breaths, until his footsteps feel light again, painless.

Now the world sharpens around him, gaining crispness by degrees as if he is coming to after a disorienting dream. The street Grantaire is on has a vague familiarity, but that’s all. He doesn’t know how far he has gone from the theatre, and he can’t bring himself to turn back just yet.

Instead, he veers through an open gate on his right, onto a path across a park or a grassy common. It’s the sort of place that is crammed with people in summer - summer, as in that rare spike of warm weather they get for a week or two every year - but for the rest of the year merely serves as a place for teenagers to loiter in the afternoons, for solitary businessmen to perch on the benches with their three-pound meal deal for lunch, for people who walk their dogs the same route every day.

Grantaire abandons the path and clambers up a small slope. He drops onto the low brick wall there, looking across the rest of the park and trying to block out the city skyline on every side.

His fingernails scrape absently against the crumbling cement in the grooves of the bricks. He is avoiding contemplation. He’s already done too much of that. What he _needs_ is a real distraction.

There’s someone else climbing up the slope as nimbly as they can, but he is no distraction from anything, so Grantaire tries to keep his eyes fixed on something else. If he ignores him, maybe he’ll think twice about -

“Hi,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire doesn’t want to look up or reply, really. But at least Enjolras isn’t being as awkward as he _could_ be, standing a few feet away and surveying him. No, he’s only his usual awkward: aloof without making it look like he’s trying to carefully approach a wounded animal.

Instead, he holds out Grantaire’s grey hoodie. “I brought this,” he explains, “in case you - wanted it.”

Grantaire glances down and nearly lets out a snort. Ah, of course. Here he is, a hot pink mess, close to tears and Tutu Much Attitude.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, stretching out a hand, and Enjolras bridges the gap to pass it to him. While Grantaire busies himself by pulling it on, he lowers himself onto the wall too, a foot or two of space between them. Well, he clearly doesn’t consider his duties to be at an end yet. And Grantaire doesn’t know why it happens to be _Enjolras_ , of them all, but at least he’s missed the worst of it.

He buries his hands into the pockets of his hoodie to throw off any Wounded Animal Vibes he might be emitting, just in case. “Anyway, I’m fine,” he offers, pre-empting the _are you okay_ he can sense coming.

“Mhm.” So maybe Enjolras doesn’t believe him. Or maybe that wasn’t what he was going to ask Grantaire at all: maybe he has come on behalf of them all, and is waiting to hear some kind of apology, an excuse for Grantaire literally walking out on them all in the middle of practice. They deserve one.

“Was it the journalist?”

“What?” Grantaire starts.

He’s just _walked out_ on them all.

“There was a reporter this morning,” Enjolras says, and although his voice is hesitant, he clearly needs no hints about where Grantaire’s head is at. Grantaire hunches over, eyes on the floor and bile surging in his throat, and shakes his head, though he knows he should be nodding.

Enjolras waits. And then, gently: “What did she say to you?”

He can’t repeat it all. Even if he _wanted_ to, there’s a lump in his throat the size of the iceberg that sank the _Titanic_ , so he just makes an indistinct sound, and then offers hoarsely, “I shouldn’t have done this.”

Fuck. He had been _mad_ , at her showing up like that, forcing him to relive shit he should be over now, but now... She was right about some things. He’s back, and it is different now. For better, he had hoped, but no, it’s for worse, much worse. Because he’s _directing_ this thing, he’s in fucking charge. And it’s been going fine, hell, Grantaire has even been under the illusion that it’s been going _well_ -

And already he can’t cope. He can’t be responsible for this, and drag everyone else along with him, making promises he can’t keep, entertaining grand ideas he can’t recreate. He left that room without warning and without explanation, and, based on experience, not a single one of them should expect him to come back.

They’re all better off without him. “I’m not meant to be here.”

“You didn’t just take _her_ word for it, did you?” Enjolras refutes, with a touch of the incredulous. “Everyone knows to ignore the reviews. They don’t know you. Why should it matter what they think?”

“What if she has a point, though? What if everyone has a point?” Grantaire blurts out, because it turns out the floodgates might not have closed yet, and he can feel the agitation clawing its way back in. He pushes against it, forcing out the words, desperately rational. “It’s great and all denying it, but I _agree_ with them. It never works out. Ballet’s not for me.”

Enjolras scoffs at that. “I can’t believe that.”

Grantaire’s chest gets tight, his breaths shallower.

Enjolras fixes him with a steady gaze. “Clearly they haven’t seen how much you care.”

“No, I don’t care. I _don’t_ care -” Grantaire protests. That’s not who he is anymore, that’s not who he was for long. He _can’t_ care, because - “I just - _hate_ it. I always end up hating it. Oh, god -” Like a plastic bag over his head, the haze of panic sets in around him, suffocating. It’s all he can do to heave in enough air to stay still, each inhale rattling him, wracking his shoulders with the effort of it.

Jesus, fuck, he’s here falling apart and it had to be Enjolras here to see it. Enjolras, quiet and terrifying, so fiercely calm, exceptional and impossible, as perfect as they come. Worse than embarrassing, he thinks, this is a new low, a whole new level of rock bottom.

He tugs a hand from his pocket, hating how it’s trembling, and holds his fist to his mouth, squeezes his eyes shut.  

“It’s okay. I know,” Enjolras says quietly. “I know.”

“You don’t -” Grantaire chokes out. How would he know what it’s like, to come to feel nothing but apathy for the thing you care about most - to resent the very thing you’re supposed to love?

Fingers curve around his wrist, guiding Grantaire’s hand down, away from his mouth. The hold is so light at first that it is almost ghostly, but as his arm lowers, his fist unfurls, and their fingers interlace. Then, he feels the warmth and the pressure of it - his hand in Enjolras’ - and latches on like it’s an anchor. He counts, counts his breaths, one to five.

“I used to have panic attacks,” Enjolras murmurs. Grantaire shoots him a sidelong glance, but Enjolras’ brow is furrowed, and he’s frowning out across the park. “Every time, before every exam I did. I don’t know why, really - I would work myself up about everything. I wouldn’t sleep, I wouldn’t stop, I’d be convinced I couldn’t do it, any of it, things I’d been practicing for weeks without trouble. I’d almost wonder why I was putting myself through it at all, when I could barely make it through the door. I hated it then.”

He pauses.

“And as soon as I started dancing, it would suddenly be fine again. Easy. I'd feel stupid for it.”

Silence rushes up, and ebbs away again.

“But how did you get over it?” He asks, barely audible. “The anxiety?”  

Enjolras glances towards him with a rueful half-smile. “Well, eventually there weren’t any more exams I had to do.”

Grantaire chokes - and suddenly it’s a laugh. “ _Wow_.” He intones, and he can’t help it, he cracks a grin. “That’s encouraging. Fucking inspirational. You should be a therapist.”

Enjolras makes a face. “I mean, I tried to make it easier for myself. I’d try and turn the fear into - I don’t know, proving myself? For years I’d just go in and try to do the same solo variation better than before, because at least it was one I knew I cared about, and one I knew I could do, panic or not.”

“What was it?”

“Um, Flames of Paris.”

Grantaire grins again. Oh yeah, he can see that.

“After about the fourth time, I think, the school forced me to do something else,” Enjolras admits, a little guiltily, “so that year I ended up doing something from _Giselle_.”

“Albrecht?” He guesses, and it sparks a rush of memory. “I remember that one. I, uh, actually did _Giselle_ at the company.” It was the biggest role he’d done professionally, before his last.

“Oh? You did?” Enjolras says, oddly high-pitched.

“Mm.” It was a heavy-hitter for the company’s season, a grand Romantic ballet. As a matter of fact, Grantaire thinks he partly blames Prince Albrecht, doomed to dance to his death, for fucking dancing _him_ to death.

But he’s not going to start thinking about that again, not when he has just gotten it together. He glances down at the patch of wall between them and realises their hands are still entwined. Hell. He extracts his fingers, pasting a smile on his face to show that it’s cool, he’s cool now.

“Anyway,” he says.

Enjolras frowns down at his empty hand, but shifts it away just as Grantaire regrets letting go. “Anyway, I hope you know where we are,” he offers lightly, “because I have no idea where this is.”

Grantaire scans the grass, watching a lone parent chase after their toddler. It takes him a moment to place them again, but the buildings look familiar.

“Yeah,” he answers with a chuckle, “I know.”

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been here - longer than he has meant to be; it feels like eons have passed - but they should probably head back to the theatre.

“You don’t have to go back right now, if you don’t want to,” Enjolras tells him.

“Yeah, I do.” What will he tell them all?

What if everyone’s _gone_?  

Enjolras looks at him. “They’ll understand.”

 

The walk back feels almost as surreal, everything around him so loud and jarring and unabashedly mundane. Grantaire leads the way, but Enjolras is close at his side, their pace and their conversation slow and meandering.

“Did you grow up here?” Enjolras asks, as they wait for a traffic light to turn.

“Mostly,” Grantaire acknowledges. “My first few years as a kid were in Italy. ‘Cause of my mother, before the divorce.”

There’s a fair chance Enjolras already knows the answers to questions like these about him.

“But _The Iliad_?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire’s eyebrows knot together in confusion as they cross the road. “Uh, what about it?”

“You didn’t go for something Latin? Or Italian, even? The _Aeneid_ \- I don’t know - the _Divine Comedy_?”

He bursts out into a laugh. “No, blatant patriotism or concern for my country’s cultural heritage didn’t really factor into my decision, if that’s what you’re asking.”

That thought, ridiculous as it is, does make something occur to him that hasn’t before, not in so many words. On the corner, he stops in his tracks, grasping Enjolras’ arm to better face him. “Is that why you do ballet? Because France invented it?”

(Listen, Flames of _Paris_. _And_ he remembers that awful bandana. Oh god, it probably is, isn’t it?)

Enjolras blinks. “Actually,” he protests, biting his lip in something close to a reproach, “given Catherine de Medici was a huge patron of court dances, and helped bring them _to_ France, technically Italy invented ballet.”

Grantaire is grinning wider, now.

“Oh, so what you’re saying is that you think that I, _I_ picked my stressful and short-lived professional career out of a latent but deep-seated patriotism? God, I love it.” He shakes his head, crumpling forwards into laughter again - the kind that crackles in his abdomen, warming, infectious. “Man, you’re something else.”

If Enjolras is trying to suppress his smile, he’s failing horribly.

“Why did you get into ballet, then?” Grantaire inquires seriously, as they start off again.

Enjolras glances at him.

“If you don’t mind me -”

He shakes his head, and says thoughtfully. “It was a dance I saw when I was quite young, I suppose, that really cemented it for me. I can’t remember that much about it, now, but this is what I’ve been told, anyway, how my parents like to tell it.” He shrugs, abashed but Grantaire waits. “It was one of the holidays when we had gone to see my grandmother. She lived - still lives - in Nouvelle Calédonie, um, New Caledonia, which is in the -”

“- Pacific? yeah,” Grantaire puts in, and Enjolras looks pleased, “- and she always used to take me to watch the Kanak ceremonies. There’s dance in everything. And there’s so much meaning in it; dance is such an important part of tradition there, and still really used for so much - and, I don’t know, they said my eyes lit up or something silly, but basically after that all I talked about doing for a long time was dancing.”

It’s as if Enjolras is waiting for Grantaire to laugh again.

“Of course, when we got back to Paris it wasn’t really that kind of dancing, but my parents signed me up for ballet, and everything snowballed from there. And I loved ballet too, and so it just -”

 _Ran away with you_ , Grantaire fills in. Consumed your whole life, before you even knew it.

“And I love it.” Enjolras repeats. “I couldn’t imagine doing anything else.”

The Arcadia looms up in front of them.

“Why?” Grantaire asks, falsely casual and desperate to know. “What makes you love it?”

“I love that... it’s a language. It speaks. It expresses things in a way words can’t, not in French, not in English... and still, it’s universal, communication, passion. It provokes, it moves, it inspires.” Enjolras looks at him helplessly. “And, I don’t know - it feels like being free.”

Grantaire glances from Enjolras to the theatre door. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the variations I mentioned, in case you're interested!
> 
> Flames of Paris (haha sorry I could not resist a fr.rev ballet): see Jorge Barani dancing [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulxwzkX4hKI) or [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8t1-BrODmYs).
> 
> Giselle - Albrecht in Act Two: So many versions of this! Have [Bolle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kN5kGlkUaBw) (an Italian!), [Baryshnikov](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N8__iRsxG_A) (a legend!), and [Polunin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lx8M-AijO9Y), who is generally my inspiration for ballet!R. 
> 
> As ever, please bear with me with updates and thanks so much for reading! <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know what?” Enjolras says, and Grantaire wonders if that thoughtful expression suddenly on Enjolras’ face is evidence that he is contemplating dropping him. “In my experience, corpses don’t generally tend to _talk so much_.”

Apparently they do all understand, or at least take things better than Grantaire has expected them to. Everyone looks up at his return - a dishevelled disaster, and Enjolras hovering just behind his shoulder - but none of them flinch in shock, none of them even hesitate. Courf looks as though he’s ready to swoop in for a hug, but Grantaire stiffens in embarrassment before he can help himself. And maybe Courf and the rest of them notice, because instead of being fussed over for the next hour, he manages to blurt out, “Sorry about that -” and have them all brush off his apologies with smiles and cheer. Courf murmurs a _hope you’re okay, dude_ as he slings an arm round his shoulder to pull Grantaire back into the rehearsal fray, and everyone snaps back to what they were doing before, which he supposes is the best outcome he could have hoped for.  

Of course, exposure to their bright faces doesn’t ease the guilt already sour in his stomach, and he knows exactly what Cosette is doing now, chiming in with too-easy questions to make him feel involved, useful... but he is too weary to resist, so he goes along with it, with her, with Feuilly, with Joly, and when Eponine casts him a furtive, probing thumbs-up, Grantaire finds he doesn’t entirely have to lie when he returns the gesture.

In a while, Eponine and Feuilly show everyone the progress they’ve been making on Hector and Andromache’s pas de deux, and Grantaire looks on gratefully. It’s an understated scene, based on Book 6, but one of the sections people seem to love, one of the sections to which people seem to be able to relate most in the modern world. For a moment, it’s just Hector and his wife and his baby boy, a family struggling to get through a war without being torn apart. It is all Andromache can do to beg him to stay within the walls of Troy with her, for her sake and their son’s. Hector might be tempted, just a little, but he is also a steadfast soldier, and bound by duty to return. He’ll fight for his family’s and his city’s safety, fight to gain honour for his father and for himself, will go into battle regardless of his fate.

Grantaire’s eyes drift off their dancing for just a moment as he contemplates Combeferre’s early draft of the music in closer admiration, but the spell of concentration snaps when he senses eyes on him. It’s more than an offhand glance: there’s no other word for it - Enjolras is _studying_ him. Intently.

Grantaire quirks an eyebrow at him. His cheeks might have flushed a little, but before Enjolras sheepishly ducks his gaze, he smiles, and there is something so soft and so inward about it that it feels like something secret.

 

Enjolras pities him, of course. He must do, now, if he _doesn’t_ think Grantaire is plain ridiculous. For his part, Grantaire won’t lie, the situation has evolved into hideous awkwardness, in the attempt to fall naturally back into that professional (well, yeah, pseudo-professional) working relationship they had going on before he accidentally wound up one small step away from sniffling on Enjolras’ shoulder. But, he thinks, he deserves all the awards for trying.

The best way to keep people off his back - to keep them from worrying about him, to stop them feeling as though he needs constant surveillance or support, to make them forget to think about him and whether he’s _okay_ in a way that, at best, perturbs him and at worst, sends him careening with guilt - is to plough on as cheerfully as possible. And so Grantaire makes a real show of pulling himself together and throws himself into the next few weeks of his ballet schedule with enough fervour that he doesn’t have _time_ to think - or overthink - about not being cut out for this.

In fact, all he can think about is his ballet. He had feared taking on a lengthy project like this based on the sheer amount of effort and the necessary amount of practice - and he wasn’t wrong to - but he also hadn’t considered the bright side, these reams of ideas that keep cropping up in his head, new things to do or try that keep the whole thing entertaining.

“I have an idea,” he says, having hailed Enjolras at the beginning of one evening practice. “Though it depends on whether you’re up for it.”

“Alright,” Enjolras says patiently.

“Have you ever danced en pointe before?”

(Listen, it might be the first image people have of ballet, but it’s a cemented tradition of female ballerinas, and female ballerinas only. Men are supposed to do their own thing, and aren’t usually taught the techniques for that kind of dancing. They work their muscles, stretch their limits in leaping around and lifting partners; meanwhile, ballerinas are strengthening their core and their ankles to an insane degree and managing to support their entire body weight on the tips of their toes, in shoes that are literally reinforced at the base. The majority of Grantaire’s experiences en pointe have been trying on Eponine’s old pairs of pointe shoes and prancing around the flat - and he _was_ a professional dancer - and it’s still pretty uncomfortable.)

Enjolras, to his credit, doesn’t look quite as fazed as he could be. “A little, actually,” he replies.

Grantaire’s surprise must be visible, because he elaborates. “I learned for one of the ugly stepsisters in Cinderella a few years ago.”

Nothing is especially unbelievable about that, but for the fact that anyone in their right mind would cast _Enjolras_ as an ugly stepsister when there was a role of a prince on offer in the same ballet. A laugh splutters out, and although Grantaire tries to stifle it, he’s still begun to grin so hard that his face hurts.

Mercifully, Enjolras doesn’t seem irked, his mouth merely upturns with bemusement.

“It wasn’t just for comedy, though,” he protests, rallying around a more earnest detail. “It was a really interesting production; it was actually representative of the power struggle. Cinderella herself didn’t have them at first, and was forced to dance on demi-pointe until she got her glass slippers, in the form of pointe shoes.”

“Ah,” Grantaire pronounces. “I see your _pointe_.”

All the expression drains from Enjolras’ face, and his eyes roll into the back of his head. “No,” he says.

Grantaire shrugs in a not-quite-apology. “No, but that is clever,” he adds more seriously.

“So you want Achilles en pointe?” Enjolras presses, steering them back to the, ahem, point of this conversation.  

“Not for, like, the whole time - I was thinking only in the occasional sequence or two, just to give a few moments an extra dynamic,” Grantaire explains, but there’s more to why it might work. “Because Achilles has to be outstanding in his might, obviously, but he’s _also_ more graceful than the other Greeks, than Hector. If you forget the toxic, aggressive masculinity stereotype thing, his skill is actually that he’s light-footed, faster and more agile, more nimble than everyone else. He has to be able to surpass all their skills in battle. Pointe would be another plane for him to exercise that ambition, aspire to his godhead.”  

“ _Swift-footed Achilles_ ,” Enjolras quotes.

“Right. Best of the Achaeans.” Grantaire adds. “It’s just something else that sets him apart. If you think it’d work?”

“I like it. I really like it.”

Grantaire tries to shrug off Enjolras’ continued earnestness, tries not to flush at the praise. “I got the idea watching Jehan do Aphrodite the other day, actually. See, I was thinking that as Patroclus, they’ll be the only other soldier who will be able to imitate Achilles directly, and it seemed fitting for their _aristeia_. Plus, it’d be a waste not to get Jehan en pointe as much as possible.” Turned down by the company or no, Jehan has been working en pointe for years.

“Perfect,” Enjolras breathes. “I’ll ask them to help me with the technique.”

“That’s what I was going to suggest.”

“Great.” Enjolras is already crackling, raring to get on with it. “Let me know when you need me next.”

“I will.”

He watches Enjolras turn and make his way back to the side of the room to warm up with a dizzying feeling of his own.

 

It’s a feeling that is always most potent when they’re alone together, and their Wednesday afternoon practices at Grantaire’s flat aren’t helping. It gets worse every time as routine emboldens, and the next thing he knows is Enjolras lopes in as comfortably as if he’s coming home, and all the preamble they need is exchanging a smile or two.

Today the rush Grantaire gets as Enjolras shrugs off his bag is particularly heady, and the words on the tip of his tongue aren’t about to assuage it.

Enjolras beats him to it, anyway. “The pas de deux, you said last time?”

“Yep,” Grantaire confirms, trying to be nonchalant about it. He wracks his brain for the basics. “I - uh - I don’t know how well it’s going to work, but I have a couple of ideas for this part. And I figured if we give it a go now, if I’m the guinea pig, then at least I don’t have to have Jehan thrown about for hours if it all ends up looking shitty.”

“Well,” Enjolras remarks wryly, “if you don’t mind throwing yourself about.”

“Please,” he snorts, “that’s all I’m good for.”

Enjolras doesn’t laugh.

“Sorry if I’m heavier than who you’re used to partnering with, though,” Grantaire admits, thinking that if the heaviest person Enjolras has lifted is _Cosette_ that today definitely requires a warning. Male pas de deux do exist, here and there, but undoubtedly they require some adjustment in technique. The good news is Jehan will probably be a little lighter than him, too. And although Grantaire is broader in the shoulders, Enjolras definitely has the edge on him in height. “Just say if you’re struggling, yeah?”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Enjolras assures him.

Great. So they should get started, probably, but he can’t figure out where to begin. Enjolras is standing there, ready and well in reach, but Grantaire is almost afraid to touch him. Maybe it’s because he has gotten too used to heckling him from a distance - seems to operate on a particular hands-off policy when it comes to him - but to change it now feels like breaking the rules.

He forges a temporary escape, circling out to the centre of the room alone. “The thing about this pas de deux is,” he explains with a grimace, “that Patroclus is already dead. At the moment, he’s probably lying there centre-stage. So once you’ve been called on, you’ll push past the rest of the corps to see his body. Maybe fall to your knees, place a hand to his chest.” He mimics this on his own chest to illustrate, still half-musing about what he wants. “Then, I think, you have to clear the space of everyone else. If you spin out and sweep around in a wide circle - maybe grand jeté en ménage? - you can force everyone back, push all the mourners to the edge of the stage,” he paces through what he means as he says it, and comes to a halt in the middle of the room again, “so that it’s just you and Patroclus’s body left, almost alone in your own world.”  

Enjolras’ eyes are following his every movement, but now Grantaire drops to the floor in place of the corpse. “To the rest of them, Achilles is angry - _raging_ already - but then he falls to a stop, and this time when he approaches Patroclus, it’s different. Slow, cautious, disbelieving. Tender.”

Wordlessly, he bids Enjolras try that. Hesitantly, Enjolras ventures some steps towards him, each excruciatingly elongated, agonizingly deliberate. Grantaire props his head up with an elbow so that he has a better angle to see. He knows he could just continue to demonstrate what he wants, rather than try to put it into words: but it is worth it this way, because Enjolras is the type of dancer who often follows instructions better than they have been envisioned. He drops to his knees, and leans over Grantaire, presses a hand against his heart. (Grantaire can only hope that he can’t feel its frenetic pace.)

“Can you - can you kneel here, actually?” Grantaire suggests, tapping the space. When Enjolras is there, he continues, “If you take my hand and lift it outwards, and put your other on my shoulder, you should be able to pull me up into a sitting position. Yeah -” Enjolras assists him in this, “- and then, while I’m propped up like this, let go, and roll sideways there, until we’re resting back-to-back. You’re holding me up here, and maybe your hand trails along my arm, until we’re holding hands again.”

Grantaire pauses there, brain whirring a mile a minute, far too busy shuffling through ideas to waste time on the fact that their fingers are suddenly interlaced. Enjolras is silent, so patient or so unwilling to interrupt that it’s almost hard to remember it is him.

At last, he figures out where he wants to go, and together they test out a few steps, gradually sorting them into a sequence. He gets Enjolras to peel himself away off his back in the opposite direction, and as Grantaire lets his head fall backwards, Enjolras scoops him up off the floor in his arms. Grantaire lets the outer side of his body twist out of Enjolras’ grasp, as if falling outwards to the floor, but is suspended there for a moment, and then his legs swing towards the ground as Enjolras’ grip on him shifts, tight around his waist. And then his feet are pointed, aligned with Enjolras’ leg, his back is arched, and his arm curves over his head and backwards to mirror Enjolras’ half of fifth position.

The is the moment of Achilles’ greatest devastation, and Grantaire wants it to be nothing less than heartbreaking. It has to be pivotal, _the_ pivotal pas de deux. The Greeks’ best soldier isn’t always the most likeable, but now he is stripped of his armour, of his pretensions to godliness, even of his dearest comrade -  it is Achilles revealed, raw and vulnerable.

He explains all this to Enjolras - or, well - mostly starts rambling about it to himself as they experiment, not entirely sure whether his partner is too focused on the actual dancing to be listening to a word of it. It’s not working out by any means as a straightforward or _simple_ duet, so he can’t actually blame Enjolras for trying to concentrate. After all, a lot of the strain is on him to create the shapes and be the supporting partner - the thing about playing a _dead body_ in a pas de deux is that it’s tough for Grantaire to pull his weight without _looking_ like he’s doing any of the work.

There’s already one lift they’re stuck on: Grantaire is standing in front of Enjolras, both of them facing the mirror. Enjolras’ hands are supposed to be leaping down from where they are holding him up just under the arms to gripping Grantaire’s waist in time to propel him upwards in a cambré-esque lift. It’s not gone well so far: Enjolras’ hold has slipped a couple of times, and sometimes he strains to get Grantaire as high off the floor as either of them have intended. Grantaire has been _trying_ to do what he is supposed to, as the partner being lifted - which is simultaneously jumping in order to give Enjolras a boost - but his shoulders keep tensing when he does it, his body stiffening every time as soon as he has left the floor. Plus, Enjolras’ hands are digging in so tightly around his waist that it has started nearly feeling ticklish.

This time, as he thuds back down a little less-than-gracefully, he can’t quite stifle the snicker.

“Alright, try again.” There’s not a huge amount of improvement.  

“Can’t you try and be a little more limp?” Enjolras protests, his own arms taut with tension as he stares critically at Grantaire via the mirror.

“Be a little more limp,” Grantaire repeats as he dangles there, smirking, because who would he be to resist that? “Now that’s one I _haven’t_ heard before.”

That earns him an exasperated look, to which he only flutters his eyelashes in response. “I mean, I honestly don’t know if I can - I’m just so _hard_ right now -”

“You know what?” Enjolras says, and Grantaire wonders if that thoughtful expression suddenly on Enjolras’ face is evidence that he is contemplating dropping him. “In my experience, corpses don’t generally tend to _talk so much._ ”

“Ooh,” Grantaire coos, as he leans backwards into the lift like he’s supposed to (as best he can without headbutting Enjolras), “True. Enjolras is so smart. I’ve never met anyone so clever, and suddenly I’m feeling so faint, I’m practically swooning -”

The hands around his waist start squeezing him tighter.

Yelping out a laugh, he decides to take the hint, just this once. “Alright, look, I’m done.”

(It might be for the best if he does stop talking, in case fate decides to, er, show him up for joking about that.)  

So they move on, and get through another couple of lifts before -

“Wait, how long has it been since I’ve died? Rigor mortis might have set in, right?”

“If you don’t shut up soon, I will _make sure_ it does.”

“Excuse me, why aren’t you wracked with grief right now? You’re supposed to be _wracked_ with _grief_.”

So much for ‘heartbreaking’, huh.

 

At that weekend’s rehearsal, everyone actually has Grantaire’s full concentration on the choreography. He’s trying to get the Iliad’s embassy scene sorted. It’s the most interesting bit of Book 9, and the discussion is a revealing one, but in terms of translating that to ballet, it’s proving a harder task than any pas de deux.

They’re in the Arcadia’s practice studio, and he and his Ajax and Phoenix (an old ballet teacher called Mabeuf, whom Marius had wheedled into taking the role at all) are coming on from the corner, sent by Agamemnon to persuade Achilles back to the stagnating war.  

Since Odysseus is leading this assignment, the others are following Grantaire’s example anyway. The thing about Odysseus’ steps, Grantaire is finding, is that they must always be smooth; he’s got to be perpetually in control, tight in his turns, unhurried in his chassés, strategic in his leaps, never expending more energy than necessary. (It makes such a nice change to play at having self-control.)

He lets Ajax and Phoenix retrace their entrance, and moves over to Jehan and Enjolras, who will be sat in their camp, by their fire. For now, they’re lounging on chairs around a heap of people’s bags that they’ve assembled as a makeshift fire, and Achilles is supposing to be playing the lyre. Grantaire clicks his fingers at the two of them, who are instead embroiled in conversation.

“Enjolras, Anyway Here’s Wonderwall,” he orders, which is explanation enough of the pose he wants him in. “Jehan, if you turn further sideways - yeah, cool,” he decides, and shows them how Odysseus will make his entrance.

“Shall we bow at them to greet them?” Jehan asks. Grantaire ponders this. “Sure, you can return the nod - but keep it restrained, nothing too friendly. Achilles can blank Odysseus completely, actually,” he adds, and Enjolras shoots him an amused look.

He shuts his eyes to remember what he has sketched out as coming next, but at that point the door batters open and someone tramps in from the staircase. Grantaire’s eyes flicker open, but Joly, who’s working with Courfeyrac at the moment, is closer, if anything needs dealing with, so he carries on with the scene.  

He hasn’t gotten much further than positioning Ajax and Phoenix where they should be, when he hears a ripple of murmuring around the room.

“Marius,” Joly exclaims. “What’s wrong today?”

Jehan, from where he is sat over here, tilts his head toward the door in interest. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Grantaire continues with what he was doing - “now, if you pour some wine, and say -” and demonstrates how he wants Achilles to gesture begrudgingly for them to gather around the fire... But Enjolras has followed Jehan’s lead and is peering at Marius in consternation. (The _one_ time he’s on a roll, actually being productive, and...!) Grantaire snorts to himself, then gives up and steps out of the pose. “Yo, guys, what’s going on?”

In the end, everyone in the room ends up congregated around the bag campfire. Grantaire drops next to Jehan, and Eponine falls in on his other side. Marius is squished in beside Courfeyrac, and his face is deathly pale.

“What happened?” Joly asks.

Knowing Marius, it could be all manner of things. Grantaire is trying to decide whether to place his bet on him having either lost a shoe or his hamster, but while he’s weighing up the two options, Pontmercy regains the power of speech.

“I went for dinner last night.” He starts.

Cosette nods encouragingly.

“With my grandfather. He invited me.”

“Tell them who your grandfather is,” Courf urges. When Marius shakes his head, tight-lipped, he says darkly, “Gillenormand.”

Everyone starts at the name. Gillenormand - Marius’ _grandfather_ \- is one of the company and their theatre’s most generous patrons, the kind who have been supporting the ballet for generations. What’s more, Gillenormand is a name people hear a lot, for all the sway he has with the company’s board of governors.

Grantaire wasn’t aware. Marius _did_ attend the same ballet school, the one connected to the city ballet, that Grantaire did - he remembers this from Marius’ audition forms - albeit once Grantaire had already graduated. They have figured out out that as a student, Marius was in one of the same productions as Grantaire, only they wouldn’t have known it at the time. And not long after that, he had already quit, and Marius had gone on to spend a year in Spain and a couple more with the Stuttgart ballet.

But you’d never know he had family connected to the industry, not in the slightest. Maybe it was why he was enrolled in ballet school in the first place, but the name, the influence the connections? It doesn’t look like Marius wants any part of it. He’s heard from Eponine before that Marius had lost his parents and had fallen out with his grandfather, but if that’s the case, Grantaire supposes he doesn’t even know what has brought Marius back here now, back within reach of his grandfather’s talons.

Strange, that Marius might look like a weirdly open book - with a blush that burns his ears scarlet in toe-curling obviousness, his horrendous crush on Cosette, the passionate frustration that he works himself up into when he can’t get the ballet steps as perfectly as he’d like, and the way he might publicly lament about trivial problems, the way he bares his anxiousness and despair for all the world to see - but under all that? Maybe Grantaire has been wrong about him, and under it all, Marius is an intensely private person.

“What did he want?” Eponine asks.

Marius fumbles for an answer. “I thought - well, I - it wasn’t what I thought it would be, anyway,” he explains, his lower lip wobbling in anger at the memory. “And the company director and the chairman of the board were both there too.”

“What were they doing there?” Enjolras says, his brow furrowed.

“He’d invited them. They wanted to ask me questions.” He waves a frantic hand around the room. “About this. The _Iliad_ , this ballet. Who was involved, what we’re doing. About Grantaire. It lasted hours.”

A few stares dart to him. His stomach clenches uncomfortably, but Jehan and Eponine shift towards him until he is nearly arm-to-arm with the both of them, a wordless comfort.

“What the hell,” he says.

“It was an ambush,” Courfeyrac interjects, squeezing Marius’ shoulder in reassurance. Grantaire looks around, and the rest of them have mirrored Courf’s expression. Subconsciously or not, every last one of them is smouldering in outrage.

“I don’t know what they’re trying to do,” Marius adds. “And I tried not to tell them too much, I swear,” he insists, his face crumpling. “But I didn’t know it was coming, and it felt a lot like an interrogation. I can’t remember what I even said.”

“It’s alright,” Grantaire says honestly. “Whatever you said, it’s fine.”

“There’s nothing they can do,” Enjolras points out. Grantaire’s not sure if that’s true - but if they didn’t force Marius to pull out of it, didn’t say anything along those lines, then perhaps it was sheer curiosity on their part.

“Don’t worry,” Jehan adds.

“Grandfather said some awful things once they’d gone, though. So I - moved out,” Marius says miserably. Grantaire now notices that he’s fiddling with the straps of a rucksack, one that’s considerably more stuffed than it would be with a spare pair of ballet shoes and some tights. “He pays for my apartment, see. Oh god, I didn’t even think that through. I just woke up this morning still angry at him, packed some things and... left. I posted him my keys.” He buries his head in his hands.

There’s no one in this room who doesn’t look ready to jump to Marius’ rescue - save perhaps Montparnasse - but it is Courfeyrac who doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, it’s settled then. You’re coming home with me.” Marius looks up in shock. Courf has already prised the rucksack out of his grasp and swung it onto his own shoulder.

“Shall we go for lunch and dump your stuff?” He asks Marius, with easy congeniality. “We’ll be back after,” he promises Grantaire and Joly, and they both wave them on.

("Courf?" Marius whispers, on the way out. "Could we possibly pick up Napoleon on the way? I left his cage outside the neighbour's door.") 

 

None of those of them who work at the company hear anything strange in the next few days after Marius’ dinner. In fact, it’s not until the middle of the week, when Grantaire traipses back into the flat after a morning shift at the library, that he finds out their next move.

“Hey,” Eponine calls from the kitchen. He rolls in, amused by that nice timing. Eponine rarely bothers to run home for lunch between her classes and rehearsals, and Grantaire’s not always in early enough, so they don’t usually bump into each other much during the day.

“Cosette’s eating your leftovers,” Eponine informs him smugly, when he walks in to find that she’s not alone. And she’s not wrong, because there Cosette is, halfway through a tupperware container of reheated curry, smiling guiltily at him as she lifts another forkful to her mouth.

The fact that she’s eating his curry isn’t the most unbelievable thing about this scenario. It’s more that - last he’d noticed - Eponine and Cosette hadn’t exactly been _friends_. But, since he doesn’t think poisoning her competition is quite in Eponine’s wheelhouse, Grantaire supposes he’d better take this for what it looks like.

“Wow, I’m hurt and offended,” Grantaire feigns. “I’m gone a few hours and what do I get when I come home? Raccoons raiding the fridge.”

(As far as he knows, raccoons don’t exist this side of the Atlantic, but. Foxes, then. Either way, Eponine’s grin is devious and delighted.)

“Sorry,” Cosette tells him, giving him wide doe-eyes, “I didn’t have time for breakfast.”  

“It’s cool,” he says magnanimously, rummaging around for some of Eponine’s pasta salad instead.

“Rude,” Eponine says. Grantaire tosses her an angelic expression, but her face slips into seriousness a moment later. “Wait, R,” she says, before he can amble out of the room. “This came through the letterbox for you earlier.”

Eyebrows pulling together, he eyeballs the crisp envelope and the return address on the back. “Well, I _know_ I’m not going to want to read this,” he announces to them both, setting the pasta salad down on the counter so he can tear it open. Eponine and Cosette look on as he reads it to himself.

It’s not long.

“I’ve been... invited to see the company director.” Grantaire echoes. “In his office. He’s given me an appointment. Friday.”

“The fuck?” Eponine says.

“Did they say why?” Cosette inquires.

 In short, no. “Hell if I know. Apparently it’ll be ‘to my advantage’ if I attend. Not that he makes it sound like he’s _asking_.”

“Well, that sounds shady as fuck,” Eponine says. “Can I read it?”

Grantaire doesn’t disagree, and he hands the letter over with a flourish. “Be my guest.”

Cosette peers over Eponine’s shoulder, but glances up at him first. “Are you going to go?”

“Who knows,” Grantaire says. Definitely not him.

 

After the girls leave again to work, Grantaire fails to concentrate properly on anything until the door clicks open and Enjolras arrives.

He finishes adjusting his ballet shoes without pausing to look up.

“How are you?” Enjolras asks brightly.

One thing’s for sure; he’s no longer much in the mood for talking.

“I’m fine,” Grantaire answers, straightening up. “Let’s dance.”

 

Today, there is no joking around, no lighthearted pause in which to laugh. They don’t even stop for fumbled steps, just forge forwards in that pas de deux, throwing themselves into the next lift and then the next with furious abandon. When Grantaire doesn’t think a step is working, he scraps it, and they start from scratch with something new. They change places, so he can refine the movements he wants without the burden of describing them, and so Enjolras understands the arrangement from Patroclus’ perspective. Enjolras keeps pace easily, raising the bar again and again. The whole thing starts to flow, the seams between steps dissolving until one shape they make blooms naturally into another. It hurts to dance Achilles’ part, Grantaire finds, muscles aching from the burden of trying to provoke Patroclus into life again. Achilles guides his corpse into fish dives and présages as if this is the soaring romantic celebration of the whole ballet, but it is emotion that has come too late, because the moments can’t last, and Patroclus always falls. By far the worst part is when he finally lowers Patroclus to the ground again, and for one long moment isn’t holding him, for one moment they aren’t touching, and that’s when Achilles truly breaks. And then he is on his knees again, grasping at Patroclus, wrenching him into one last embrace until he is too wracked from silent sobs to hold him.

He’d call it hyperbolic if it wasn’t already like this in the Homer.

By the time they’ve practised right to the end, they’re sweating, panting wrecks. Only when he and Enjolras have actually let go of each other and stumbled onto their feet again does Grantaire see himself in the mirror, running a hand through tangled hair and face flushed red.

He catches Enjolras’ face in the mirror, but suddenly can’t look at him right now.

“Two minute break, and then we’ll go for it with the music,” Grantaire declares, ducking into the kitchen to throw his face under the cold water tap.

In those two minutes, he has regained some calm, slightly, and Enjolras sets down his water bottle as they nod awkwardly at each other and Grantaire switches on Ferre’s sample orchestration. He reverts to Patroclus’ position on the floor as Enjolras takes a deep breath and begins. They lose a little in the acting with a renewed focus on timing and accuracy - only this time Grantaire gets shivers from their interlaced hands. As the music swells, they move into the lift section, and he lets his limbs loosen, trying to listen to Enjolras’ movements and signals. Just when they’ve done the présage better than they ever have, they screw up slightly on the next one, and Grantaire misses his cue and Enjolras never quite finds the right balance, so Grantaire slips out of hold sloppily, too early. He twists awkwardly, and before he can securely find his own two feet, Enjolras has grasped hold of him again. And honestly, that doesn’t help Grantaire in the slightest, because they’re facing each other, and Enjolras’ arms are enfolded around him - he can feel every contracted muscle, can feel his hands on the small of his back. He can’t shift any further forwards, because they’re already practically pressed against each other. He can feel how the bottom of his t-shirt has gotten rucked up in the front against Enjolras’ clothes, but there’s no room to adjust it, and he hasn’t got the liberty to look anywhere but forwards at Enjolras’ face. They meet each other’s gaze, and already they should have moved on by now, because the music has left them behind and they’re still frozen in place. He doesn’t know how he has survived the past hour-and-a-half of dancing if now his body is fervently assuring him that he _can’t survive_ in such close proximity as this. As if to refrain from spontaneously combusting, he lets his gaze drop, but then there’s Enjolras’ mouth to contend with - his lips parted, and the sharpest Cupid’s bow he’s ever seen - and the fact that he can feel every exhaled breath on his cheek.

 _Hell_ , he thinks, with buckling knees, telling himself it’s because he’s still playing Patroclus, or because they’ve done too much dancing for one session, and not because their noses are nearly touching. He feels Enjolras’ hold on him lightening, but he has no will to step away. He knows he needs to, knows that he _means_ to -

But in that moment Enjolras shifts closer, and Grantaire’s chin tilts almost imperceptibly in response -

No, he's imagined it.

“You’ll be late,” he hears himself say.

Enjolras’ brow is furrowed, but eventually he nods, jerkily. Grantaire extricates himself to turn off the music.

Maybe it’s lucky he won’t have to dance this one for real.

 

Friday morning swings around, and he still doesn’t know what he’s going to do. It turns out that if there’s one thing his brain is especially wired for, it’s playing and replaying scenarios in his imagination that don’t help him solve anything, just send him spiralling further. 

In the end, he stuffs the letter in his pocket and leaves the flat, reasoning that if he doesn’t show, he might just be harassed with more and more letters until the place is flooded with them, Hogwarts-letter style. Alright, maybe not; in any case, it’s probably best to get it over with.

It’s strange that he’s reached the point again where it feels _weird_ not to be in his ballet gear. Like, actually odd to be wearing his favourite jeans without tights or shorts on underneath for longer than it takes to get into the theatre and back home again. Still, they’re faded and baggy and ripped at the knees, and it gives Grantaire an extra prickle of pleasure to see the company director eyeing them distastefully when he saunters in.

Christ, it’s like being hauled into the headteacher’s office to be disciplined, only Grantaire (who was well-versed enough in teachers’ reproaches, both before and during ballet school) doesn’t even go here anymore. He’s not a student, he’s not an employee, not a dancer at this company. As far as he’s aware, he’s not breaking the law. So, long story short, they can’t touch him.

He figures he might as well make this as clear as possible. He doesn’t shake the outstretched hand - he fistbumps it instead - and when he takes the seat opposite the desk, he sits slouching halfway down the chair with his legs too wide apart, just to be a little more irritating in a world where proper posture is number one of their ten commandments.

Mr. Company Director doesn’t say a word to this, though his sneer is already ill-disguised. Maybe Grantaire should really get comfortable, and prop his feet up on the desk. There’s a nice antique vase that could get smashed.

“How are you, Grantaire?” Old Walrus Face says. (An equally antique nickname of his. Interestingly, he looks even more walrus-like than Grantaire remembers. He’s been growing that moustache, and the eyebrows to match.) “I hope you’re well.”

Grantaire snorts. “Peachy, thanks.”

“Lovely to have you here,” the man drones, his nose wrinkled as if there’s a dubious smell in here.

“So why is it that Pontmercy gets the three-course meal, and I get the school detention?” Grantaire asks flippantly. “Or is that just because you’re terrified of Gillenormand, too?”

Walrus Face mutters something made nearly unintelligible by the amount of moustache in his mouth. And keeps going, on and on about Gillenormand and the importance of the board of governors and how _interesting_ it was to hear from one of their promising young dancers about the project that’s being put on. This, plus a five minute digression on the _Iliad_ as a touchstone of western literary culture, as though Grantaire’s never heard of it.  

“Honestly, dude,” he sighs, after a while. “I’m going out on a limb here, so correct me if I’m wrong, but, I figured hauling me in here would have a grander point to it. Not to rush you,” Grantaire adds politely, “but would you please just get _on with it_?”

Listen, it’s not that he doesn’t like lolling around in idle chitchat - he enjoys a good meandering debate as much as the next bloke, he could talk for six hours if he wanted - but if he’s not careful, this is going to start eating into practice time. He’s sure they’ll get a kick out of that. The thought bursts up that maybe that’s the plan, that old Director Walrus Face and the ballet company board have contrived a cunning scheme to see his ballet fail, and that it is merely to keep him here, keep him talking for weeks, until he’s old and grey and all his performance dates have long since passed. Maybe this faux-politeness is just the ruse before they lock him up in a cupboard somewhere in here to rot. Now that _would_ be something, Grantaire thinks, imagining the rest of the _Iliad_ cast congregated at the theatre when they discover how he’s dropped off the map. Eponine’s rounded them all up, Joly’s probably sick with worry. Combeferre displays hitherto unknown tactical skills in drawing up the details of a rescue mission; Feuilly’s done some reconnaissance. Marius has vowed vengeance on the company (and pledged his love to his fair Cosette in the meantime, presumably), and Enjolras is leading the charge, of course, breaking down doors for his sake, sprinting in slow-motion down the hallways of the building, frantically searching, and when he bursts in they’ll lock eyes and -

“Come back to the company.” The pronouncement resounds for too long, too loud for the room.

Grantaire squints. He’s misheard, he must have.

The director leans forwards. “Come back as a resident choreographer. On a trial basis, of course. But we have more resources than you could possibly require. More international clout as a ballet than you could otherwise hope to gain. More dancers than you have, and people you know. There’s nowhere more suited to you than here, with an artistic company that knows and understands you.”

While he tries to get his head round what the _hell_ that offer just was, Grantaire reasons that ‘understands you’ means ‘is prepared to put up with your bullshit’.

“Wait a second, is that an invitation or an order?”

The other man’s mouth curls upwards. “Why, an invitation, undoubtedly.”

Grantaire swallows about fifty other things that have sprung to his tongue before he gets out his next question. “So, what else would you give me?” He inquires, too loudly, propping his chin on his hand dramatically. “Tell me the other perks.”

In answer, Walrus Face lists a few things, pauses, and when he is offered no reply, carries on again. _Shit_ , Grantaire thinks, what an offer. They must want this something awful to have to be doing this. Next thing he knows, they’ll be grovelling.

The director’s tone alters somewhat in his next words. “We’re offering you a second chance, Mr. Grantaire, I hope you can see that. Rest assured, we don’t do this kind of thing for everyone. We can see your potential - have _always_ been able to see your potential - and, as I’m sure you remember, were able to overlook certain other aspects of your conduct to take you on to begin with. Of course you realise that you were very fortunate as a student, and that we indulged you far more than we did some of your peers. Still, you threw that quite ungratefully in our faces.”

Grantaire shrugs.

“We thought it might be nice to grant you the opportunity to make up for your immaturity,” he continues. “But while _we_ are able to be perfectly forgiving, I believe I don’t have to tell you that with your notorious track record, it is highly unlikely that any other ballet companies of this tier would ever be willing to take on such a liability, now that you apparently wish to return to the ballet industry. Oh, you’ve asked yourself this before, most assuredly, but why _would_ anyone be convinced to take you on again now?” He chuckles. “In that vein, I do hope you aren’t being unreasonable in your hopes that anyone will come to see your little production.”

Ah, but Grantaire’s already had his practice round of this with Claudia about all this shit, so he can deal with this pompous twat.

“Oh, no. Voice of reason, me.” He says cheerily.

“Well then, I think reason dictates that it would be in everyone’s best interests were you to bring your _Iliad_ project back over with you. We’ll give you the platform you deserve.” Oho, so it’s the ballet they want.

The director continues. “Meanwhile, you would have the career security you used to, and as a choreographer you would have the, er, independence you so desired.” The ballet, and him on a leash.

They _do_ have a point.

“And, as the situation currently stands, you’re poaching a few of our dancers. Dancers who continue to have their obligations to us.” The company director raises his bushy eyebrows pointedly.

Grantaire bristles. “They’re contributing to my production in their holiday time and in their own hours. It’s a non-profit project, so they’re taking no salary, nor are they violating their contracts. They’re missing none of their classes or performances, and I have a qualified physiotherapist on board who can confirm that they aren’t overexerting themselves. So, respectfully, there’s nothing you can damn well do about them. You’ll have your dancers back.”

There’s a nasty glint in the director’s eyes. “Yes. We will. And then, sir, what will you do?”

His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“What next for you, if you find this project sees you catch the bug for dancing or directing? When you’re finished? Your dancers will return to their careers. And you will be on your own again, with no one to sponsor or support you. What do you plan to do then?”

...Where does this end? It occurs to Grantaire that he _hasn’t_ thought much about that. Not since before it began, when the idea that it was only a temporary project was the only thing that made everything bearable; that if he could get it over and done with, his favour to the Bahorels, his one misguided stumble back through the ballet world, he would be off the hook, and left right back in his own life.

If this is some ploy to get Grantaire to question the virtue of his life and rope him back in that way, it’s not fucking going to work. He’s at peace with his life, whether or not ballet is in it. It’ll be easy, when the _Iliad_ is done. He’ll go back to working at the pub... At _a_ pub somewhere, he remembers; he’ll find a new job, same as the last. Or, you know, maybe that’s not it. Maybe he’s due for a change. He could move out of the city, even travel for a bit - hell, he could even do more ballet, if he wanted, without this company’s help or even the Bahorels’ theatre. Or missing a few members of his _Iliad_ cast. Technically, he can continue to dance without any of them at all: he doesn’t need the career to match. _Could_ continue to dance, if he actually cared to.  

“It’s so cute that you’re concerned for my future, sir,” Grantaire mimics, spouting it out as if this is a meeting with a guidance counselor, his voice thick with condescension. “But you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be just fine.”

Still, there’s something smug in the old Walrus’ face, like he thinks he’s triumphed here, as if Grantaire is rattled. Maybe it’s that that makes Grantaire feel compelled to add: “And if you _really_ think that anything you can say is going to convince me to work here again, then you can go fuck yourselves.”

That’s the last straw for the director, who leaps out of his chair. Grantaire does the same, figuring he’ll swagger out of there like a badass, leather jacket slung over his shoulder, without waiting for the lecture about disrespect that he can tell is coming. So he pushes his chair back with a flourish, spins on his heel, and flings his jacket over his shoulder. There’s an odd chime of metal zipper against china.

And then there’s a shattering crash. Grantaire can’t help it: he spins back around to see what has happened. The antique vase has been brushed right off the side of the desk, and is a vase no more, merely a cluster of shards on the floor.

“Whoops,” Grantaire says. That wasn’t part of the plan.

He’s angered the Walrus now.

“I think it looks kind of cool like that, you know,” he blurts out, gesturing at the mess. “It’s practically modern art. ‘The past, deconstructed’, or something. I hear deconstructivism is getting big in architecture again.” He pastes an encouraging smile on his face.

And, interestingly enough, _that_ is how he gets not only shouted out of the room, but escorted out of the building by one of the secretaries, how he is marched down the corridors arm-in-arm just as a surge of dancers spill out of one of the studios. “R?” Cosette exclaims, and more people look up - Grantaire can pick out the faces of his friends, and even a few of his older acquaintances in the mélee. “Grantaire!” He hears, voices rumbling in surprise and confusion as he is forced to pass them in a quick frogmarch, dancers having to shrink left and right against the walls to part the tide. Amongst the astonishment, there’s a level of amusement leaking out, people suddenly grinning wide, a few comradely pats on his shoulder, a chorus of whoops. A head of blond curls appears up ahead, and, not about to miss his cue, he jerks his arm out of the secretary’s grasp and blows Enjolras a noisy kiss. To the rest of them, he gives a gleeful salute as he and the secretary disappear from view around the corner, down the stairs, and he isn’t let go of again until he has been shoved well and truly out the door.

What can he say? He and that ballet company’s building just don’t mix.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update at last! Thanks all for your patience & your support <3
> 
> Pas de deux things: in thinking about Achilles and Patroclus' duet my mind always goes back to the finale of Manon, which is amazing and gives me feels. Spoiler alert: Manon dies. [Watch it here!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2YSlk9l1qKg)
> 
> Also, in the weirdest twist of fate, as I edited that scene I was listening to Two Men In Love - The Irrepressibles because it always reminds me of Patrochilles. Not five minutes later, I saw that someone on facebook had shared a video of a pas de deux to that exact song! I'd honestly never seen it before, but it's uncannily similar, and very very cool! [Go see!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kxo8bUbrYMU) (Update 10/17: eee thanks to watchmenning for finding a new version of it after it got taken down!)
> 
> While you wait for me to get my shit together for the next update, feel free to hang out with me on [on tumblr.](http://darrenjolras.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me what’s going on,” he says brusquely; anything to make it sound a little less of a supplication.
> 
> “It’s nothing -” Enjolras begins, but Grantaire’s withering stare seems to silence him.

“And then you said...” Bossuet says, leaning forwards in anticipation.

“Go _fuck_ yourselves!” Jehan answers emphatically, from where they are recreating Grantaire’s Friday, Courf on the other side of the coffee table doing his best impression of old Walrus Face.

Bossuet clutches his stomach in laughter.

Courfeyrac shakes a fist cartoonishly at Jehan, and lunges forwards. Jehan hops up out of the way onto the coffee table and jerks out a leg to mime kicking Courf in the face. Courf sprawls to the floor whilst Jehan executes a precarious pirouette on the table and drops into a bow to general applause.

Yeah. Not _quite_ how Grantaire recalls it. It’s not their first run through - every time they do it, it gets a little stranger.

“Cour _feyrac_ , why don’t you have a single pair of rubber gloves in this place?” Musichetta yells from the kitchen.

“Excuse you,” he answers, still on the floor, but looking scandalised. “I have an _array_ of rubber gloves.”

“Well, I don’t see any,” she calls, sing-song.

Courfeyrac huffs, and drags himself up to go help her. In the brief lull of conversation in the living-room, everyone can hear the sound of a drawer opening, and Courf’s: “Now, would you like the classic yellow? Or would you prefer blue, lime green - not the paisley, they’re for special occasions - or magnolia?”

“Can someone move the coffee table already?” Eponine’s voice cuts through impatiently. “We’re coming in.”

It’s a change from their ordinary weekend practice today, and instead Courfeyrac’s apartment is overflowing with a whole group of them. (Minus the people who draw the line at actually interacting with them socially - Montparnasse’s response to Courfeyrac’s invitation was an unvarnished, _I wouldn’t be caught dead there_ \- and plus Bossuet, Combeferre, Gavroche and Bahorel, the latter two of whom are playing a furious game of Mario Kart in the corner.

Grantaire slides off his chair to help Feuilly shift the table out of the way, and when he looks up again Jehan has nicked his seat. Grumbling, he flops onto the floor instead, leaning against the edge of the couch by Bossuet’s feet.

Eponine, Courfeyrac and Musichetta march in, laden with plastic washing up bowls. Liquid sloshes around in them as they set them down in the centre of the room.

“Okay, tights-dyeing is a go,” Chetta announces, pointing out which basin is which and causing a flurry of activity as people shuffle around for their tights. Some pairs of tights get dumped in the proper dye, for particular colours for their costumes. Others, including some from Eponine, Feuilly, Jehan and Enjolras, get submerged in the basins of brown.

“Damn, that smells so _good_ right now,” Grantaire laments, leaning forwards towards the basin as the scent of coffee pervades the room.

“No one let R drink our dye,” Eponine deadpans, “please.”

From the couch behind him, Bossuet throws a leg over Grantaire’s shoulder to rein him in. Grantaire wrinkles his nose as the coffee smell is overpowered by the whiff of Bossuet’s socks.

“I _do_ feel like a cup of tea now, too,” Cosette admits, sliding down to sit next to Eponine as she takes in the other smell.

Marius gets to his feet willingly. “I’ll make you one.” He edges around the makeshift craft-station and bounds into the kitchen, ducking his head back out a moment later. “Anyone else?”

Feuilly murmurs his assent, but the rest of them shrug.

Grantaire scrunches up his face still further, trying not to notice just how Enjolras’ eyes seem to be laughing at him from across the room. “Is no one going to offer to make me a coffee? I see how it is.”

A cupboard opens. They all hear a clang, and then - “ _Fudge_!” Marius exclaims.

Not everyone can stifle their snicker, not even Courf, who hauls himself to his feet again and goes to remind Marius where the mugs are. Grantaire suspects Courfeyrac hardly minds, however, and rather likes having Marius living with him.

Courf’s like that, though. Unthinkingly, unfailingly, unbelievably generous. The kind of guy for whom there is no such thing as inconvenience. What’s his is yours, but it’s more than that. Grantaire knows that they all have stories of staying at Courf’s, and not just the accidentally falling asleep after too much food kind. Sometimes it’s showing up with _my boiler’s burst and the landlord’s a dick_ , and being bundled up in too many blankets to fit out the door again. Sometimes it’s a _shit happens and I need to drink myself into a stupor_ kind of night, and Courfeyrac is there to make you breakfast in the morning. Sometimes it’s, _my family are awful and I have nowhere else to go,_ and Marius isn’t the first to use it. He’s even done it for strangers without qualm. Sometimes it’s two in the morning and just, _suddenly I feel so alone_ , and it doesn’t matter that you don’t know what else to do, because Courf tells you it’s not true, and sometimes Courf is the best medicine you could hope for.

And he’ll always act as though it was the least he could do.

(Apparently that goes for hosting ballet cast hangouts and tights-dyeing parties, too.)

“Are yours done yet?” Musichetta asks, poking at Eponine’s sodden tights with a wooden spoon. “They should be soon.”

“Should be,” Eponine agrees, peering in. The tea has soaked into them, and when she wrings them out, they should have retained some of the colour, a browner nude than the awful artificial peachy thing most tights and shoes are. She carries the tub back toward the kitchen to fish them out and rinse them through, and Feuilly follows her to get his tea and his tights, too.

Enjolras’ and Jehan’s soak for a little longer in the coffee, while Musichetta beckons Marius, once he has returned to the living room, over to her costuming corner. Pencil behind her ear, she whips off the measuring tape draped around her neck and wraps it around his waist, continuing in the arduous task of confirming everyone’s measurements.

Grantaire, meanwhile, passes the sketchbook of costume designs over his head and along to Joly, Bossuet and Combeferre on the sofa, grinning to himself at the _mmm_ s of awe and interest as they take turns flipping through. They’re not his designs, see - not really. Oh, he gave Chetta some of his sketches as a starting point, but, more importantly, he gave her free rein. When she sent over the first of her drafts, it was already confirmed: the girl’s a goddamned creative genius. The whole book of them is more than Grantaire could have hoped for. In fact, without Chetta’s input he presumes it would have been left a costumeless ballet, some modernist minimalism of monochrome leotards. _With_ her - and with Combeferre’s music, too - they might as well forget the dancing, for there’s already a whole world in itself, a three-dimensional evocation of ancient Greece. She has been as painstaking with the little watercolour washes on the designs as she always is with her actual stitching, embellishing Grantaire’s world with colour and distinction, from goddesses’ headdresses down to soldiers’ greaves.  

It’s too much for her to do alone though, so everyone is pitching in.

He’s just finished up sewing some new elastics onto a pair of slippers, is biting off the end of the thread between his teeth, when Enjolras pulls out his pairs of performance shoes, as per Musichetta’s instructions. They too are the ordinary satin colour, but she is planning to fashion them to match Achilles’ bronze greaves, and has given him some acrylic paint to do the job. Grantaire idly watches Enjolras unscrew the paint cap, select a brush, and tentatively add paint to the slippers with his tongue sticking out from between his teeth in concentration.

“Hey, Grantaire’s done some of mine for me before,” Eponine chimes in, looking up from what she’s doing, “and he’s pretty good at that. He’ll help.”

God bless Eponine. The sister he never had.

Enjolras looks up at him in hope. “Will you?”

Grantaire sets aside the needle and thread. “Go on then.”

He shuffles forwards so that they’re still opposite each other on the floor, but both within reach of the paint. Enjolras passes him the pointe shoes (he must trust that Grantaire isn’t going to screw this up, given pointes are the expensive ones). Eponine’s got a point though: he has done hers often enough, almost finds painting and pancaking a soothing activity. Choosing another brush, he swirls it in the golden-brown acrylic mix, daubing it onto the front of the shoe. He falls into the rhythm of it, pressing one hand inside to hold the shoe in place while he gets at the more awkward sides, glancing over occasionally to see how Enjolras is getting on.

“It looks a lot better than foundation usually does,” Enjolras says, when he and Grantaire happen to glance up at the same time.

“Yeah, it does,” Grantaire says. “I can’t believe the company still makes you guys do that.”

He gets a round of exasperated nodding, and a, “Tell me about it,” from Courfeyrac.

“Do what?” Combeferre asks.

“Pancake our shoes,” Feuilly explains. “People expect dancers’ extension to be seamless from their leg to their feet. That’s why ballet slippers are the colour they are, which is all well and good if your tights and your shoes match your skin tone in the first place, but if they’re not...” He makes a face.

“So we dust them in makeup, usually,” Eponine finishes, for Ferre’s benefit. Enjolras nods.

“You’d think their suppliers would catch on and start making different shades,” Musichetta adds, coming over to grab someone else for measuring.

“They don’t really see the urgency, if we’re already ‘making do’,” Courf says with air quotes and a frown.

Admittedly, this group of them is about that company’s minimum diversity rule met, and given it’s not really an institute that makes an effort to go above and beyond, there might not even be enough of them to make a real fuss.  

Combeferre mirrors Courfeyrac’s frown. “And there’s nothing you can do?”

“Believe me, we’ve been trying.”

“It’s all a waste of time, though,” Eponine says, scathingly. “Can’t complain about too much, or they’ll tell us to pack up and move on. Which would be easier said than done if there was anywhere else who’d take me.”

Some of them look shocked, maybe because she doesn’t often let other people in on all this. Cosette looks shocked, but gives her wrist a reassuring squeeze; to Grantaire’s surprise, Eponine doesn’t resist it.

“No luck on your last outside audition?” Feuilly asks in a low voice.

“Nope,” she answers breezily. “They went on about how much they loved my dancing, but then decided I wasn’t _right_ for them because my hips were too wide.” She gives a searing smile. “What I assume they were also thinking - but were too chicken to say aloud - was that my boobs were just too big for their leotards.”

That gets a chuckle.

And suddenly they’re all taking their turn.

“I once got told that they’d filled their quota for male South American dancers,” Courf says, throwing his hands up incredulously. “Who even has that kind of quota?”

“Somewhere told me I wasn’t classical enough,” Feuilly remembers. “That, after dancing in Moscow.”

“I was always told I was too short to dance,” Cosette puts in.

“Not that I listened, but one of my teachers said that I’d never dance professionally if I didn’t cut my hair,” Enjolras says thoughtfully.

“ _What?_ ” Grantaire blurts out. Er, louder than he meant to, if the way everyone’s heads turn to him at once is any indication. “I mean - yeah - I was nearly told no for my tattoos,” he adds hastily, cheeks hot. “And for, you know, being unbelievably insufferable.”  

At least they all laugh at that.

Jehan has been quiet thus far, perched cross-legged up on the arm of Courfeyrac’s chair. But then, out of the blue - “I mean, they let me through most of ballet school before they told me that, in the end, they weren’t sure _where I’d fit in_ ,” They offer lightly. “Every company, actually.” A sober silence swallows the echoes of everyone’s laughter, but Jehan is smiling anyway. “I suppose I was just so good that I was beyond their comprehension.”

For the first time - really, properly, absolutely - Grantaire feels like the _Iliad_ was a good idea. There’s fire in his chest. There’s a lot he needs to show the world.

By the time Irma and Floreal drop by to give Musichetta their measurements, all productivity has flagged, everyone is lazing around half-horizontal, and the television’s on. Fortunately, Floreal and Irma have predicted this, because they bring pizza.

When empty pizza boxes are decorating the place and everyone is all the more horizontal, someone on the television says a line or two of subtitled French, and Joly bursts out with - “Oh my _gosh_ , Enjolras!”

“Hm?” Enjolras returns, looking up in alarm.

“You’re French!”

Everyone looks at Joly, utterly perplexed. Grantaire cranes his neck to glance that way, too.

“Yes?” Enjolras says, suspicious.

Joly is practically bouncing up and down on the couch.

“Bossuet and I can speak some French,” he reveals, eyeing Bossuet meaningfully.

Yeah, everyone is still lost.

Including Bossuet, apparently. “We can?” Bossuet asks, scratching his head. Joly beckons him closer, Bossuet leaning over until Joly’s lips are brushing his ear in a whisper. No one else seems to catch the words, but all of them can see it dawn comically on Bossuet’s face, like the animation in an old cartoon. Joly’s grinning like the Grinch.

Grantaire shoots a covert glance at Enjolras, who is doing his best to look unruffled and expectant, but there’s a crease between his eyebrows that tells Grantaire that he’s scared witless by whatever is - perhaps inevitably now - going to happen.  

“Grantaire!”

Grantaire starts, tearing his gaze guiltily from Enjolras. Joly has gotten Bossuet bustling around doing something or other - tidying up the room? rearranging people? - but is now peering at him dangerously, his eyes large and owlish. “Stand up, please,” Joly instructs. “You have to do this too.”

Christ, what is going on? Grantaire hasn’t spoken any non-ballet French in years. Not that he doesn’t make enough of a fool of himself in front of Enjolras already, but if this is just going to be a way to rub that all in, he’s not sure he wants to -

“ _Ah_ ,” he exclaims, once Joly, clutching him by the sleeve, has filled him in. He does know what they’re doing after all, and, although he is shaking his head in feigned despair, he’s also kicking away the pizza boxes to find some space in the room, backing up until he’s away from most of the furniture. Bossuet mutes the television, perches on the arm of Joly’s sofa, facing the rest of them and holding his phone at the ready.

“Did Jojo say speak?” Bossuet puts in, raising a dramatic eyebrow. None of the others have twigged yet.

“Oh yeah,” Joly amends, still grinning from ear to ear. “I meant _sing_.”

“I dunno, you might actually like this,” Grantaire tells Enjolras, hopelessly biting back his smirk. “The chorus is quite your style.”

He shakes his head at himself, in not-quite-belief that they’re doing this. But then Bossuet presses play on the song, and an old Jacques Brel song from the sixties blasts out through the room. Grantaire gets in position and pretends to adjust a suit and tie as Joly and Bossuet start up a rousing and badly accented rendition of the first verse. With his hands back in his pockets, Grantaire does a few pas de bourrées and, as the trumpets kick in, launches into the choreography, which is modern and mime-like, as close to slapstick as anyone can get in ballet.

It’s a song about three drunk friends: _Avec l'ami Jojo_ , the song goes, Grantaire slinging an arm around Joly, and then - _et avec l'ami Pierre -_ around Bossuet, _on allait boire nos vingt ans_ : we went to drink away our youth. Jojo took himself for Voltaire, and Pierre for Casanova, the two of them sing as Grantaire provides the movements, and then puts in, in French: And I, who was the proudest; I was just being myself.

The rest of them are already falling apart laughing, but it only gets better as the song continues:

 

> _Et quand vers minuit passaient les notaires_  
>  _Qui sortaient de l'hôtel des "Trois Faisans"_  
>  _On leur montrait notre cul et nos bonnes manières_  
>  _En leur chantant_
> 
> _And just around midnight, when the notaries walked by_  
>  _Coming out of the Three Pheasants hotel,_  
>  _We showed them our asses and our good manners_  
>  _And sang to them:_

And all three of them, with tremendous gusto, belt out the chorus:

 

>   _Les bourgeois c'est comme les cochons_  
>  _Plus ça devient vieux plus ça devient bête_  
>  _Les bourgeois c'est comme les cochons_  
>  _Plus ça devient vieux plus ça devient..._
> 
> _The bourgeois are just like pigs_  
>  _The older they get, the more stupid they become_  
>  _The bourgeois are just like pigs_  
>  _The older they get, the more stupid they ..._

Enjolras has covered his mouth with his hand to stifle his laughter, but Grantaire knew it! One crack at the expense of the bourgeoisie and he’s a goner. He can’t help but watch the reactions in between his turning leaps, having to squeeze most of the routine in on the spot in case he crashes into the furniture. Or a wall.

Nevertheless, it’s one of the most entertaining solos he knows to dance, and Grantaire goes even further now than usual with every flourish of his hand, every cock of his head, spurred on by the fact that most of them have begun to join in with the chorus. Courfeyrac’s in a _state_ , clutching at Combeferre’s knee to centre himself from his shaking shoulders, and as he spins, Grantaire catches Marius wiping tears from his eyes. He cackles.

Joly and Bossuet have fallen well and truly out of time with the music, but they plough on until the end of the song, Grantaire’s dancing getting more and more frenetic until a wild, five-hundred-and-forty degree barrel turn leap as the grand climax. He throws himself into the air, and plans to spin onto his knees to finish. He does land on his knees - but he also manages to leap much too far, and comes skidding onto the pile of open pizza boxes, his knees squelching into the remains of tomato sauce. There’s a moment of wide-eyed quiet, but Grantaire blinks back his surprise and presents himself in his final pose with an entirely straight face, as if nothing has happened. They may be the smallest audience he has ever performed to, but, he’s not kidding, it could well be the most deafening applause he has ever received.

Staggering inelegantly up, he sinks into a flamboyant bow, stained knees and all. And in the end, if it happens to be Enjolras’ desperately bitten lip and forced straight face that causes his own smooth expression to falter, you can bet Grantaire will stand up and deny it in a court of law.

 

Apparently Enjolras brings out the latent - and to be honest, Grantaire thought permanently quashed - law student in Bahorel. He discovers this one day upon his approach to the Arcadia, spotting the two of them standing outside, a little way along from the stage door. Enjolras is here for a rehearsal; Bahorel drops by sometimes to let in the painters and decorators for his parents, who are trying to get all the work done before the provisional date of the _Iliad_ ’s opening.

Enjolras is clutching a coffee but doesn’t seem to be drinking it, and is instead speaking in low tones to Bahorel, who has folded arms and a frown on his face.

Not wanting to interrupt in the middle of their conversation, Grantaire begins to dawdle for the last stretch of the street, rummaging in his pockets for where he’s put his phone. The first thing he hears is Enjolras, “- well, thank you for double-checking the contract for me, anyway.”

Bahorel shrugs. “Not a problem, dude. I mean, it’s legit. But...”

“I know,” Enjolras echoes, grimacing. “They’ve done it on purpose, of course. There’s nothing they can do _directly_ , so it’s clearly an intimidation tactic. They _know_ there’s no competition. They’ll know that this is all volunteered hours to begin with, and never mind that a single production doesn’t compare to an annual contract, couldn’t possibly be a sustainable choice.”

“The fuckers, and they just couldn’t wait?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “Oh, I’ll get no sympathy from them. They’ve stipulated what they’ve stipulated - they don’t care about the blatant irresponsibility, the _dishonesty,_ of pulling out of a production this far in, as long as it’s not one of theirs. They have no intention of allowing me to do both.”

Bahorel is speaking again, but Grantaire’s stomach has dropped out of his body, torn between his original destination and the desire to back away around the corner, turn on his heel and just fucking _go_.

Bahorel notices him then, though, so, twisting his phone back into his pocket before he cracks the screen in a steel grip, Grantaire ambles over. “What’s up?” He offers mechanically.

If he hadn’t guessed already, the way both Bahorel and Enjolras glance at him, ever so quickly, and then at each other makes it obvious that something is up.

With careful casualness, Grantaire looks from one to the other, trying to guess who’ll answer him first.

“Oh, nothing,” Enjolras says easily, but his smile is tight-lipped and he doesn’t meet Grantaire’s eyes. As if that would convince _anyone_. He raises an eyebrow at Bahorel, hoping for an alternative.

Bahorel only presents him with a noncommittal shrug - as if all they’ve been discussing is the weather - and, stupidly, Grantaire is stung by the betrayal of it.

What do they gain by keeping it a secret? Why can’t they just out and _say_ it? But maybe it _is_ nothing, he thinks. Maybe he’s reading too much into what he has heard. Perhaps this has nothing to do with the ballet at all, and Grantaire is just overreacting because he’s Grantaire, and that’s what he’s good at.

“Fine,” he returns, and where he has aimed for unperturbed, the word has more of an edge to it, a metallic tang in his mouth. He jerks his head towards the side door. “You coming in?” He asks, not looking at Enjolras.

“Yeah, just a minute,” Enjolras insists. Bahorel has opened his mouth but Grantaire doesn’t wait around, pretends to be too busy to bother acknowledging him. Shouldering the door open, he stomps inside, making his way through the hallway and up the stairs without once checking over his shoulder to see if Enjolras has followed him.

 

They’re not alone for long before the rest of the dancers coming in for this session arrive, and neither of them have said a word before they do.

Grantaire does his best to pretend he heard nothing, if only so he can get through this morning without having a meltdown.

It’s harder than he thought, because it turns out that Bahorel isn’t the only person who seems to know what’s going on with Enjolras and the company. None of them are as subtle as they think, standing next to each other in between scenes and whispering in his ear, asking questions like, _have you decided what to do?_ and _have you told R?_ as if Grantaire isn’t standing less than three metres away.

He tries to ignore being the last one in the loop, but he’s heard enough to piece it together, anyway.

But if Enjolras is going to have to drop out, if he’s going to be down an Achilles with less than a month to go, if Enjolras won’t be coming back... well, Grantaire damn well would like to _know_.

(He knows that this is hypocritical of him, considering.)

So he figures if he forces Enjolras’ hand, at least it will all be over with. As everyone else files out of the studio, he calls him by name, positioning himself between Enjolras and the door. 

“Tell me what’s going on,” he says brusquely; anything to make it sound a little less of a supplication.

“It’s nothing -” Enjolras begins, but Grantaire’s withering stare seems to silence him.

Enjolras lets his hand fall from where it has been obsessively grasping at the bag strap slung over his shoulder. “They pulled me out of class the other day. The company offered me a promotion to principal.”

Grantaire digests these words about as well as if they are leaden weights, feels them collect in the pit of his stomach. He can taste acid in his mouth as he smiles, close-lipped and cheery. “Well, congratulations. That’s great news.”

Enjolras can’t seem to get any words out in response.

“It’s well-deserved,” Grantaire adds, when the pause grows taut. And then he rephrases, because the emphasis doesn’t sound quite right. “You deserve it.”

He has no right to be bitter about this, because it’s true; Enjolras does. But Enjolras shakes his head unhappily.

“You could have just told me,” he puts in, trying to seem blasé. “I get it, you know.”

“No,” Enjolras says abruptly. “They’ve only offered me the contract on the condition that I dance the principal role in their next production, rehearsals for which start before we’re finished with the _Iliad_ , so I’m not going to accept it.” He finally explains, and sounds abashed. “It would mean I can’t do this, and I’m not -”

“No,” Grantaire interjects this time, “you can’t give that up.”

“Well, I have to, because I’m not giving this up.”

“Fuck it, Enjolras, you should,” Grantaire protests. “It makes no sense for you not to take it. What if you turn them down and they never give you the chance to make principal again?” He’s heard their friends’ stories, he knows how hard it is for most people to get anywhere in professional ballet, he should know not to take that for granted. “Forget about the _Iliad._ It’s nothing, comparatively - you said it yourself, there’s no competition. It’s some dumb little project, it’s not important. Who cares about this?”

“ _I do,_ ” Enjolras retorts. “How can you say it’s nothing? I care about this, about what we’ve all put into this, what you’ve done with it - we all care!”

“So it’s worth throwing away your career for?” Grantaire counters, heat rising in his cheeks. Enjolras isn’t him, after all: Enjolras’ future is bright on the horizon. He doesn’t need to make the same mistakes.

Enjolras is closer now, staring squarely, voice ringing out louder. “I’m not going to let you - everyone - down because of this. I would _never_ back out of something I’ve committed to -”

No, he _wouldn’t_ be that kind of person. Grantaire isn’t surprised. Enjolras, however, breaks off in horror, his eyes widening dramatically. “Not that - I wasn’t talking about - I didn’t mean it like that -”

“It’s alright,” he says shortly, rolling his eyes as if that will prove it. There is a small voice in the back of his head that tells him that of course Enjolras didn’t mean it like that. It’s only a murmur, so it’s no wonder that it gets engulfed by another voice, which promises in blaring tones that of _course_ he did. It’s what everyone thinks. Meant or not, there’s the truth of it that can’t be ignored. After all, Grantaire backed out of the biggest role of his career one night in. He let a whole cast and a company down. He walked straight out and refused to look behind him, and if that’s not backing out of a commitment, what the hell is?

“If anything, I admire you for it,” Enjolras insists, his words burning earnestly.

“I don’t want admiration,” Grantaire responds flatly, tearing his gaze away and finding refuge by concentrating on a mark on the wall. “I wasn’t making a statement. It wasn’t for anyone else’s sake. It was never anyone else’s business, and I don’t need people making mistakes in my name.” Enjolras isn’t him, he repeats to himself. He can’t have Enjolras’ career on his conscience, too.

“Just go. Take the offer. Think of the good you can do in the spotlight.”

He turns to go.

Enjolras’ hand catches onto his. “ _Grantaire_ -”

He can’t help it - he veers back round. But when he meets Enjolras’ eyes again, he recoils, wrenches his hand away, and dashes down the stairs.

 

Cosette is with Eponine when he gets back to the flat, the two of them making ice baths for their sore feet or popping each other’s blisters or something that involves a lot of squealing and laughter. Grantaire strides past them both without saying hello, slamming his bedroom door behind him and burying himself so far under the covers that he can’t hear when they leave again.

He knows there’s a time limit on his moping, so he makes sure to immerse himself fully while he can. With or without Enjolras, he has rehearsals to oversee everyday, some choreography left to finish - potentially even a new Achilles to find, if Enjolras takes his advice. He’s not sure whether Enjolras is excuse enough for him to call the whole ballet a bust - frankly, he wishes it was. But it isn’t, and he can’t, not when the others are all still involved and counting on it, not when everyone has worked so hard.

He’ll have to figure something out.

 

In the meantime, he feigns sleep when Eponine gets home that night, and then has to actually get up for a library shift, followed by a practice with a few of them. It’s not one of the days with Enjolras, so Grantaire gets through it by ignoring the gaping problem he now faces.

 _Fuck_ the company. Who knew they would be so petty? Messing around their best new talent, what, to get back at Grantaire? Maybe he should have taken their offer for the sake of his friends... but he can’t help himself, he’s relieved that there is no chance in hell of having to repeat his years with them. He’d wish for the whole company to go up in flames, if only half of his friends weren’t still ensnared there.

 

He’s slumped on his bed again tonight in major Avoidance Mode when Eponine cracks the door open and stalks in. Clambering over the pile of things on the sofa, she reaches the empty patch of the bed and makes herself comfortable there, cross-legged. Before Grantaire can resist, she has dragged him by the shoulders until his head is in her lap, and she winds her hands absent-mindedly through his monstrous bedhead while he looks blankly up at the ceiling.

He suspects she has talked enough to the others to have a full picture of the situation. Everyone already knew about Enjolras’ potential promotion, after all, and he’s sure they’ve prised the details of their conversation from Enjolras by now, too. Has Enjolras said anything since to Eponine? God, she’s not going to make him ask her outright, is she?

“Courf and Marius tried to get it into his head that he could manage both, if he accepts their terms and just pretends to be ill to shirk their rehearsals for a week or so until the _Iliad_ is done.”

“That’ll never work,” Grantaire scoffs aloud - he can’t help it, rolling his eyes is his instinctive reaction. “Yeah, I’m sure the company will take kindly to seeing their ‘gravely ill’ new star on stage somewhere else, and _totally_ won’t just go ahead and sack him straightaway.”

“That’s what I said,” Eponine agrees calmly. “Feuilly thought Enjolras might just be able to convince them to move their rehearsal schedule back and let him do the _Iliad_ if he uses enough pretty words, promises to suck up to them afterwards. Obviously, Enjolras didn’t go for that either.”

“I _told_ him just to take it,” he intones, huffing in exasperation as she threads one of his curls around her fingers.

“I know,” she says, but then she’s drumming her fingertips against his forehead. “But, R, I think you’ve forgotten that Goldilocks himself _is_ a big boy, and can make decisions for himself, in fact.”

He snorts at her kindergarten teacher tone, absorbing her words more begrudgingly.

“So, what, let him turn them down and lose his job with them?”

“Would you have taken anyone’s advice, when you left?” Different circumstances, Grantaire thinks. Number one, he didn’t tell anyone until he’d done it. (No. The answer is no, he wouldn’t have. And, frankly, he’s glad. No one could have forced him into staying.) “Besides, they’re not going to fire him. He’s too good for them to really want to get rid of him.”

“But I don’t want him to stay out of _obligation_ -” Grantaire insists.

“Trust me, you made that clear,” Eponine says. “He’s under the impression _you_ want him gone.”

“I didn’t say that,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, well. Anyway, he still hasn’t accepted them, and I’m not sure he’s going to. But Cosette thinks he _could_ have it both ways, if he waits to sign the contract - tells them he has to think about it first - and if the _Iliad_ ended up finishing a bit earlier than planned.”

Oh.

“Joly’s not in favour,” she warns him. “Doesn’t want everyone overworking themselves. Doesn’t want you to stress out any more than necessary. But, I don’t know. It sounds possible to me.”

Grantaire hauls himself up into a sitting position, and casts a full-on grin her way. “Oh, I think we could pull it off.”

 

He still hasn’t spoken properly to Enjolras about this, hasn’t seen him in rehearsals yet. But he has filtered out the word about the new schedule, and everyone so far has seemed up for it, so perhaps they’ve passed it on. Joly takes some convincing that they’ll be ready by then, but practices seem to be going well, and things seems to be coming together.

Combeferre is confident it can be done, too, and that is why Grantaire heads home with him that night to go over some final changes to the score. It’s after practice and they’re both already knackered, he knows, but now the schedule is even tighter, so it has to be done sooner rather than later. Combeferre, too, presumably has a life outside of this fucking ballet, and although the composer has assured him that he can go over it all without Grantaire needing to be there if Grantaire trusts him (and there’s zero question of that)... but it isn’t Ferre’s responsibility to do that, and hell if Grantaire’s going home to bed while he has Ferre slave away over stuff for his own passion project.

It does prove difficult not to doze off, cross-legged on a chair pulled up beside Combeferre’s at the piano, but he pinches his leg from time to time to stay awake, massages the soles of his sore feet while he listens to the amendments to the music, and offers feedback when he can.

After a couple of hours, of at least fifty times of picking between different tempos and tunes - “Now, this one... or this one?”; “Wait, listen once more,” - Grantaire has started eyeing up the eight - no, nine? - cans of Red Bull that are littering the floor around their chairs like some kind of dire fairy ring, and Combeferre keeps twitching his pencil centimetres away from his sheet music, writing little marks and annotations in midair. He’s trying to work out how to politely call it a night, for both their sakes, when Combeferre springs out of his seat, the pencil slipping to the floor and rolling somewhere under the piano pedals in his haste. “Fancy a Pot Noodle?”

Grantaire’s stomach roars to attention. “Like I’d say no to that,” he manages nonetheless, leaning over the side of his chair to collect some of the Red Bull cans, his fingers inching as far as they possibly can. Having gathered up a few, he follows Ferre into the kitchen to chuck them in the recycling, watching greedily as the kettle boils.

It feels as though it is taking actual eons, but his attention is fortunately waylaid by the door opening. Running a hand through his hair - which, naturally, doesn’t help make it any less dishevelled - he wanders back into the living room, just in time to see Enjolras kicking off his shoes. He’s in ordinary clothes, but there are still the remnants of stage makeup on his face from the evening’s performance, and beneath them, there are bags under his eyes that make him look years younger than he is.

“Hey,” Grantaire says, too tired to whip up something witty.

Enjolras looks up and casts him an equally weary smile. “Hey.”

“Enjolras, Pot Noodle?” Combeferre calls in greeting from the kitchen.

“Please,” Enjolras calls back, collapsing gratefully onto the couch.

Grantaire has already planned a long apology speech, has a whole host of things to say, but his brain is working too slowly to get past the first few syllables of it, and, to be honest, Enjolras doesn’t look awake enough right now to hear it.

So, Grantaire perches awkwardly on the couch’s arm, and they say nothing, but at least it doesn’t feel entirely like a decision made out of ire. Eventually, Enjolras reaches forwards for the television remote and starts flipping through channels until he finds a comedy panel show. It’s mostly satire of the news, and Grantaire hasn’t paid the least bit of attention to the past couple weeks of news so some of it is lost on him, but it’s the only thing half-decent that’s on, so he doesn’t raise complaint when Enjolras shoots him an enquiring glance. Before the audience laughter can even begin to give him a headache, the volume gets turned down until it is more of a background buzz.

Combeferre is still pottering around in the kitchen. Maybe Grantaire shouldn’t have stayed for the midnight snack, he is thinking, when Enjolras suddenly speaks up.

“I -” Enjolras stammers out, his gaze still fixed upon the television screen, “I’ll go, if you want me to.”

Grantaire’s chest constricts.

“I don’t want to ruin the whole project for you, and I don’t want to mess everyone around by letting the company pull all the strings. So. If you don’t want me to be a part of it anymore, I... understand.”

“No,” he breathes out, his eyes flickering over Enjolras in profile, a study in chiaroscuro in the lamplight. “I do. Stay,” Grantaire adds more firmly, noticing how the surprise dawns on his face, pulls his lips apart a fraction, lifts his eyebrows hopefully. “I need you to stay - we need you. If you want to, we can make it work.”

He can see the sigh Enjolras expels. “If you’re sure?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. “Yeah, I am.”

“Okay.”

At last Enjolras glances towards him, meets his eyes for a brief moment, but then Combeferre is back, carrying three pots of instant noodles. Once he has distributed them and they’ve both murmured their thanks, he drops into the chair. This leaves Grantaire no choice but to shuffle off the arm of the sofa and onto the space beside Enjolras. For a while, there’s only the sound of them slurping.

They make occasional comments on the TV show, but after their hunger has been assuaged somewhat, the drowsiness sets in with a vengeance. Combeferre, legs curled under him in the chair, has a book open and has been peering down in it in concentration, but either Grantaire keeps blinking when he turns pages or he hasn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. Grantaire himself hasn’t dared move in a while, because he’s sitting sideways with his feet up on the sofa, and although he keeps getting pins and needles, every time he shifts he seems to accidentally nudge Enjolras’ leg.

When he next glances covertly to his left, Enjolras is even more nestled in the couch than he has been, head tilted sideways. Curiously, Grantaire leans forwards, ever so slightly, to get a better view. Enjolras’ eyes are closed, chest rising and falling in a soothing rhythm.

And he looks the youngest he has ever done, the most subdued. It’s like finally seeing him on a gentle glow setting, mellow and soft-edged where he usually emits a harsher, brilliant glare.

Grantaire grins to himself. But he should probably get going now, actually get up and go home.

(And maybe find a Sharpie first. It’s too good an opportunity to waste.)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I normally only get time to draft chapters on the weekend, but I'd finished this far and couldn't bring myself to wait until Sunday!~ 
> 
> The Jacques Brel - Les Bourgeois routine is actually based on [this, danced by Daniil Simkin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I2aj79ql9iY). Full lyrics in French & English [here!](http://lyricstranslate.com/en/les-bourgeois-burgeois-middle-class.html)
> 
> As usual, I just want to say how much I honestly appreciate all your comments and kudos, it's so awesome to know what you're enjoying. Thanks a million for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pressure mounts as opening night approaches (also ft. couches, children and coffee).

_Did I get that sharpie?_   He thinks as he jolts awake; his brain is too foggy to make heads or tails of it. In obstinate grogginess, his eyes stay squeezed tightly shut in an attempt to slide back into sleep until he feels at least ten percent more ready to face the world and another exhausting day.

Unfortunately, it is proving a hundred times harder to fall back to sleep than fall out of it, what with the light filtering in onto his face and the fact that his head has been crooked awkwardly to the side all night, his chin digging into his collarbone.

Grantaire tries to shift positions a little, but his arms and legs feel leaden, tangled up underneath the covers, one foot colder than the rest of him. He tries to pull it inwards to warm it up, but doesn’t manage to make it far before his toes collide with a leg... that isn’t his.  

He cracks an eye open, and almost has a heart attack.

He’s still on the fucking couch at Combeferre’s place. As if he needs more proof of that, when his mouth falls open in shock, he gets a mouthful of curly hair. _Blond_ curls, inundating his entire eyeline, some stray locks brushing against his neck. Grantaire’s eyes are wide open now, and this is not a drill. He doesn’t remember this _happening,_ but here he is, still on the couch, sprawled out on his back. Enjolras is on top of him, pinning him down, his head nestled on Grantaire’s shoulder. It’s worse than that, too. Enjolras’ arms are around him - his hands have dug down, warm underneath Grantaire’s back. And - fuck - his arms have curled around Enjolras, too, holding him in place.

Grantaire stiffens. Goddamnit. This isn’t a big deal. This shouldn’t be a big deal. Problem is, now all Grantaire can do is think about the last time they were ever this close, Enjolras holding him like this, their faces mere inches from each other.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Because the more he finds himself thinking about it, the hotter he gets under the collar (the proverbial collar, he means, because of course there’s only one thin layer of t-shirt between him and Enjolras’ warm chest), and the warmer his cheeks get, the more his pulse quickens, the blood rushing dangerously through his body. Yep, it can only go downhill from here.

Grantaire carefully extracts one arm from around Enjolras’ waist, letting it dangle loosely down the side of the sofa instead. What the hell should he do now? He can’t exactly disentangle himself without waking Enjolras up. (He should probably be more ashamed of how little he even wants to.)

He grunts, which is supposed to be a subtle signal to prompt him to do so, but apparently it has no effect. Enjolras’ slow breath rises and falls against Grantaire’s chest.

Right. Okay. Y’know, maybe that’s for the best, Grantaire not having to deal with an awake Enjolras _just_ yet, while he’s in this state. He’ll give himself a minute more to cool down. All he’s gotta do is lie very still. Stay calm. And maybe think about something else. Anything else.

 

He’s not sure how long he’s been lying here awake, but he has watched a spider make its way halfway across the ceiling and start lowering itself by its thread down towards the lamp in the corner when Enjolras finally shifts on top of him. He mumbles something too, rendered unintelligible by the way he buries his face further into Grantaire’s shoulder, unknowingly nuzzling him with his nose. Grantaire lifts his eyes back to the ceiling and silently begs for mercy.

Enjolras suddenly goes still, though. On reflex, Grantaire shuts his eyes again and slows his breathing, figuring that if he pretends to be asleep still he’ll save them both their dignity. He feels Enjolras’ face jolt upwards, and doesn’t miss the exclamation of surprise and the intake of breath that follows. The hands slide out from under Grantaire’s back; he lets his body stay slack, waiting for Enjolras to peel himself off. For a moment, there’s no movement, and then - fingers ghosting over his cheek, along his jaw?

And - shit - his eyes have snapped open now, wide open: Grantaire catches Enjolras’ gaze transform to horror. In sheer shock, Enjolras slips right off the couch, thudding to the floor, Grantaire tumbling with him in a mess of tangled limbs. There they sit, with hot cheeks and flustered faces and clothes sticking with sleep. (Running a hand awkwardly through his, Grantaire wonders which of them has the most dishevelled hair at the moment. Enjolras looks like a dandelion.)

“Um,” Enjolras says helplessly.

“There’s coffee in the pot,” Combeferre says kindly, as he strolls past them both on his way out the door. “Have a nice day.”

  


There’s no time to dwell, though: the new date for the _Iliad_ has been set, and there’s no time to lose. Admittedly, Grantaire has covered his bases a little; he’s calling the advertised performances a ‘workshop’ of a new full-length ballet, with the idea that if it’s a success it will continue to be tweaked, refined and reproduced in years to come. He doubts it will be, of course: potentially, he could sell it on to someone else to work on, but he doesn’t expect anyone to be interested. He can’t keep working on it himself, he knows that. His cast, for one, have their own careers to get back to, their own lives. He could carry on with it alone, he supposes, but what’s the point? He can’t picture it fully, perfectly finished. He’d probably fiddle with the details of the production for a lifetime, if he could. So that’s why he rejects his friends’ offers to let the _Iliad_ lie for now and revisit it in another season, when he’s had more time to work on it, when there’s less urgency and less pressure. It wouldn’t matter - he doubts it would be any better then. At some point, he’s got to stop. For once in his life, he just doesn’t want to leave things unfinished.

The schedule has been changed for the final few weeks, the usual slots shifted around as everyone squeezes every last drop of time out of their days for this. Grantaire feels like he is living in a whirlwind, only leaving the Arcadia to sleep for a couple hours every once in awhile, people coming and going around him. Even when he’s dozing off, he’s got choreography playing behind his eyes and at any time, a list of at least ten things he has to tell people on his brain.

He’s exhausted, he is. But he isn’t _tired_ yet. He’s been in this practice studio every day so far this week, has been working in here for months, and there’s nothing special about the room. It’s just a rectangle of discoloured cream walls and a stretch of floor-to-ceiling mirrors, an odd little extension of the building up that narrow set of stairs from the labyrinth of backstage hallways and dressing rooms. He knows it back-to-front by now, has seen the shabby old floor scrubbed up and re-polished, knows just how to crack open the window with its sticky lock, has seen Mrs. Bahorel, despite his protests, replace the old ballet barres with a new set - proper, expensive ones, that whoever’s in here next better damn well appreciate.

Right now, they’re off at the side of the room, Cosette and Eponine limbering up at one of them, Eponine stretching up a leg along it, Cosette in the midst of some pliés. They’re having a whispered conversation at the same time, smiles inching wider and wider until they’re lost to a fit of silent laughter.

Courfeyrac’s just finished an Agamemnon scene, and doesn’t even stop to sit down, just fishes out his skipping rope and starts on some cardio in the corner by the piano, his eyes on Combeferre until, by some kind of tacit agreement, the steady _thwack thwack thwack_ of the rope beating against the floor is keeping perfect tempo to the piano music.

Less in tune are Marius and Montparnasse: it sounds like Marius is trying to give ‘Parnasse some well-meaning advice on his pirouettes. Grantaire admires his courage. Jehan is marking through a scene with Joly’s help, Floréal is coaching a few of the corps members who are there.  

Feuilly and Enjolras were just talking each other through a fight sequence, tracing movements and steps with their hands, but right now Feuilly is alone, eyes fluttering closed in concentration as he goes through one of Hector’s sections of pas de bourrés.   

Enjolras is off to one side, resting on one knee as he exchanges his slippers for pointe shoes, a dimple in his cheek as he smiles at nothing in particular. He straightens up and returns to his scene with Feuilly.

And Grantaire? He’s been standing around in a daze like an idiot for too long already.

But he’s going to miss this.

 

Enjolras catches him between sessions one day, stepping out of the way to let everyone file out before he comes in. “Hi,” he says.  

Grantaire’s got his hands full using the piano top in the corner as a table to sort out some papers and looking for some of his choreo plans in amongst the pile, so he only offers a wave without glancing up.

Enjolras paces a little closer, but Grantaire hasn’t actually realised there is an actual reason for his presence until he clears his throat and says, “Grantaire.”

Uh oh. He’s wearing one of his serious looks - he has so _many_ \- and seriously, how can that still be so daunting? Grantaire’s seen him mumbling in his sleep, for Christ’s sake. Nevertheless, he sets his stuff aside and, executing a casual soutenu turn to face him, raises an expectant eyebrow. “Enjolras. How can I help you?”

If anything, Enjolras looks more hesitant. “It might be too much to ask,” he starts, “but I wondered if you could do me a favour?”

Wow, okay. “Anything,” Grantaire blurts out easily, too easily. He lends his next words a more joking air. “I’ll polish your boots.”

Enjolras gets tight-lipped.

“Pancake your shoes.” Grantaire adds, thinking that maybe it’s best to drop the joking altogether before he gets carried away and says something really stupid. “What is it?”

“I’m trying to reschedule something, and I wondered whether we could use the theatre tomorrow afternoon.” Swiftly, he qualifies, “Just the studio space - or we can take the stage, wherever you don’t need - or neither, because I know the _Iliad_ schedule is tight as it is and you’ll have people everywhere. I wouldn’t ask unless I didn’t have any other options, so -”

“Uh,” Grantaire wracks his brain for the schedule. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he begins (never mind that the theatre isn’t really his to hire out in the first place; since it’s on his time anyway, he can’t see why the Bahorels would mind.) “Wait, shit, I think Mrs. Bahorel’s getting her guys in to do the rest of the painting in the studio tomorrow, now that they’re finished with front of house. She’s kind of been chafing at the bit to get it done, but I can see if she’ll postpone it.”

“Oh, well. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something else. I just thought it might be worth a try.” Enjolras shakes his head, waves off the way Grantaire is still squinting in thought.

“No, it’s cool, I can probably call off practice tomorrow afternoon. Or move their session to my flat - the last one of the day is only Jehan and Feuilly, I’m sure they won’t care. To be honest, they’re both pretty much set, I could even give them the day off. Uh, and Joly was bringing Bossuet in to work out some staging cues, but we can do that another time, and that leaves the stage free for you?” He says, insistent. “Anyway, what’s this for?”

“It’s for that weekly workshop I run,” Enjolras confesses. “Free classes for children in the city who are unlikely to see or do this kind of dance; we introduce them to ballet.”

“Oh yeah,” Grantaire remembers. Enjolras hasn’t discussed it much with him before, but, as usual, he’s heard a bit about it from Courf. He finds the thought a little hard to stick, honestly: imagining Enjolras working with kids is just too foreign a thought. “This is the one you actually got the company to fund for you, isn’t it?”

He is still blown away by that, that that place would willingly go for any charitable endeavour when they’re the ones obliged to shell out the budget for it. Enjolras must be doing bloody wonders for their profits for them to have agreed to this.

“I do a portion of the fundraising myself, but yes.” He grimaces, then. “But last week they decided that I can no longer use their downstairs studio to teach it. And you know what? They weren’t even going to _tell_ me that they’re shutting it down. It was only by chance that I checked the scheduling sheet for the room again, and I had to take it to admin myself before they would even admit that they’re not going to allocate space for it anymore, never mind funding.”

Grantaire can see that the line of Enjolras’ shoulders has hardened, the muscles in his arms held taut, but all that hasn’t wholly stopped him from trembling in indignation. More than indignation, perhaps: anger exudes from him, almost in a shimmering haze.

“Why the hell would they do that?” Grantaire asks, with nothing to say to cool that wrath, only to relieve his own confusion.

Enjolras scoffs, a dangerous flare. “The essence of it is that they’ve decided they can’t commit so many of their resources to me if I can’t commit to them.”

Fuck. This is about the mess Grantaire has dragged them all into, again. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he exhales, lifting his eyes up so Enjolras believes that he’s not a complete idiot, that he knows this is his fault, and he never meant this to happen. But Enjolras meets his gaze with arresting intensity, and - “Don’t be,” he snarls.

That throws Grantaire off-kilter, a bit. “You haven’t signed the contract yet?” He queries. “Yeah, I think maybe it’s time.” There’s no bitterness left in him when he adds, now, “Maybe you should quit the _Iliad_. It won’t be the end of the world if you have to.”

“I’ve already told you,” Enjolras counters, and he has suddenly drawn in the reins of his rage, the flames have dwindled, the blazing anger has blown away: now he is cool and hard as flint. _Pitiless,_ Grantaire suddenly thinks, _the rider Peleus was never your father, nor Thetis was your mother, but it was the gray sea that bore you and the towering rocks, so sheer the heart in you is turned from us._ “I’m not leaving. I’m not stopping. I don’t care what they want me to do. They can go to hell.”

Grantaire, to be totally honest, isn’t sure whether he is terrified or extremely turned on.

“Okay.” He says - what else is there to say to that? “Take the stage for tomorrow, never mind about that practice. Hey, you can use the theatre for as long as you need.”

Something softens in Enjolras’ eyes, but Grantaire could just as well have imagined it. “Only until I find somewhere else,” Enjolras promises.

“Whenever,” Grantaire promises in return.

Hell. Just then, he would have said anything.

 

Enjolras goes, and the rest of the day is a blur. He means to text Jehan and Feuilly right then, but doesn’t get a chance, and then means to that night, on his way home, but when he takes out his phone it’s to a message of Gavroche asking him to pick up some milk, and then soon enough he is crashing into bed and hauling himself out of it the next morning.  

It’s only when he returns to the theatre after a late lunch break that, as he climbs the stairs and sees the painters already set up in the studio, Grantaire remembers one of the things that’s been niggling at him to do. Not just the all-consuming thought of Enjolras’ righteous fury, but the practical outcomes of yesterday’s conversation. _Right_. Studio - painters. Workshop - kids - stage. Rehearsal - cancelled. Goddamnit.

Three hours of sleep a night is a nice excuse, but still, _shit_ -

As he jogs back down the stairs and along the backstage corridors, he shoots a last-minute text out to Jehan and Feuilly, telling them he’s had to cancel. Fuck, and Joly and Bossuet too -

“Hey, R,” a voice says when he reaches the wings, and Grantaire turns to see Feuilly standing there, clad in workout gear and prompt as always. Enjolras is right behind him, but only offers a narrow-eyed stare.

“Heeey, Feuilly,” he drawls, withering internally.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, terrifyingly calm, “can I speak to you for a moment?”

Feuilly waves them on before Grantaire can answer.

Enjolras circles a hand around his arm and yanks him back into the corridor. “What’s going on?” He demands. “The workshop is supposed to start soon, the kids will be here any minute - and they’re children, I _can’t_ mess them around again like this - did I get that wrong, or didn’t you say we could use the space today?”

“Yeah, you can,” Grantaire assures him hastily. He has one foot on a landmine, that’s what this is. One foot on a landmine, and now he’s stuck: if he tries to make a run for it, his legs will be blown right off, and if he shifts his weight even the _slightest_ amount he’s a goner. Fantastic. He probably shouldn’t show any signs of guilt, or Enjolras will see it in his eyes.

“So why did Feuilly show up at the same time I did? Didn’t you tell him?”

At that point, they both hear Feuilly start talking, and in answer, another familiar voice. Enjolras raises an eyebrow at him pointedly.

“Why did Jehan show up, too?”

Grantaire, preparing for his impending doom, falls back on his trusty old bullshitting faculties. “Because... when I told them all about the workshop,” - and as of roughly five minutes ago, that part isn’t a lie anymore - “they both wanted to come and help out.”

Two more voices join Jehan and Feuilly in the wings.

“All. They all wanted to come and help.”

He can tell Enjolras doesn’t believe a word he says. “So when I go out there and ask them, that’s what they’ll say?”

He’s already striding back through the door. Well then, it looks like they’re going to find out. _So long_ , Grantaire tells his limbs, as he launches off that landmine and back into the wings.  

His ears are ringing while Enjolras addresses the others, a sort of bodily defence against hearing his own sentence. He tunes in at just the wrong time, though - “but Grantaire said you didn’t mind coming today anyway?”  

Look at those lovely blank faces. Joy of joys. Now he’s the moron who can’t even cancel plans properly.

And then Feuilly jumps in, smoothly and swiftly. “Of course,” he says. “We’d love to help.”  

Fortunate, since he’s the only one of them who can manage a pokerface to save his life.

Enjolras beams. Grantaire could cry.

(“I owe you all,” he mutters in Feuilly’s ear, once Enjolras has disappeared with the others to get the kids in.  

Feuilly pats him on the shoulder, with a weary grin. “Yeah, you do.”)

 

He doesn’t know why, exactly, but the certainty that Enjolras would be downright terrible with children was lodged firmly somewhere in his brain until today. They range in age from maybe six to nine-year olds, kids of all backgrounds and abilities, and there are a lot of them. Kids aren’t an apologetic bunch, and they look like a tough crowd, coming in.  

But they love him? Like, actually adore him.

Maybe it’s because Enjolras doesn’t treat them like children at all, doesn’t alter his behaviour or put on some kind of attitude (although - hallelujah - he pushes his hair out of his face with his ridiculous bandana headband), doesn’t belittle and doesn’t patronise. If anything, he’s... quite awkward: and they aren’t afraid to tease him, brazenly and endlessly, but it never has the same effect that Grantaire provokes; he just smiles serenely and carries on, or banters back while they fall about in laughter.

Enjolras stands at the front with the group of them in a few rows across the stage as they do some warm ups, a sort of mishmash of ballet exercises and games. Grantaire supposes he probably isn’t helping, much: while Enjolras is speaking, Grantaire can’t stop himself from punctuating his instructions with an array of dumb faces and daft poses from behind him, the kids dissolving into laughter whenever Enjolras glances over his shoulder and Grantaire assumes an innocent face.

But they do seem to really love the dancing, too. Every time Enjolras demonstrates a few steps, everyone stops to peer at him in wonder. He breaks the movements down, sets them all off trying, and there’s no teasing anymore as even the cockiest of kids drop the act to give it their best. And suddenly there are twenty-five little blinding beacons of earnestness jetéing around the room. It’s almost frightening.

“Mister Twinkletoes!” One of the boys cries, striking up a serious chorus of it. (That’s Enjolras.) Enjolras weaves around the room, and it’s obvious how much they want to impress him, are striving to _please_ him: their pride in his compliments illuminates them like a string of Christmas lights.

Maybe ballet isn’t dead after all.

Enjolras admits that they might be a little more boisterous than usual in their excitement at being on a proper stage, so maybe it’s lucky he has the extra hands today. (Grantaire wishes he’d thought of that earlier.) But it all seems to work out: Joly and Bossuet end up giving the kids the full experience of stage-lighting, since Bossuet is testing out the spotlights anyway. Enjolras gets Feuilly to guest-teach a hip-hop routine (the class are head over heels for him, too), and Jehan has produced a full-on tutu from their bag and now has a circle of admirers taking turns in dress-up.  

Grantaire, mildly overwhelmed by their enthusiasm, finds himself left with the stragglers of the class, and between the three of them and him, by the end of the class they have accidentally created their own counter-routine, a dance which ends with them all swinging off him like monkeys, one of them perched on his shoulders and refusing to get down.  

Man, to be young again.

 

Grantaire won’t lie, he’s pretty glad that was supposed to be the last rehearsal session for the day and his only plans are to go home and catch up on some sleep; after all that, he needs it. Everyone is in a good mood as they go, and Grantaire grins at them gratefully, hanging back to lock up the theatre again. He leans against the door frame until Enjolras comes out, loose-limbed and less serious than usual, though almost looking as tired as Grantaire feels. Of course, it’s insane that he survives at all, doing everything he does - his day-to-day workload, his extra commitments, dancing the lead in Grantaire’s ballet for absolutely nothing... Grantaire honestly can’t work out where he gets his energy from: he runs on a different kind of fuel.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, as soon as he sees him, brimming with such unguarded sincerity that Grantaire feels twice as bad for nearly ruining it all earlier.  

“No problem,” he returns. “It was fun.”

“Did you think so?” Enjolras asks, almost shyly, as they fall into step.

“Oh yeah.” Grantaire nods. “They’re a hilarious bunch, actually. I’ve gotta hand it to them,” and his grin is sly, “Mister Twinkletoes.”

Enjolras lightly butts him with his shoulder before they cross the street. “They’re nearly as annoying as you.”

“Jesus, I’d better try harder. Can’t have them stealing my title.”

Enjolras laughs.  

“You’re an only child, aren’t you?” Grantaire asks.

“I always wanted a sibling,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. “Not that I would have gotten to see them much, I suppose, by the time I was at ballet school. You?”

“Only child, too. I mean, I am living with Gavroche now, so I guess I haven’t missed out completely.”

“You were good with them all,” Enjolras adds.   

Grantaire shrugs his words off, his ears pink.

They come up to the street where they’ll probably part ways, where Grantaire will turn left. As they pass the last row of shops there, Enjolras lets out a moan. Frankly, it’s obscene. At Grantaire’s perplexed eyebrow, he explains, “I could really use a coffee right now.”

Grantaire laughs. “You and me both,” he agrees. He inclines his head towards the dingy little café on the corner. “It doesn’t look like much, I know, but actually their coffee isn't bad. If you want, we could...?”

The bell tinkles: Enjolras is halfway through the door already. “Come on then,” he calls. Grantaire shakes his head, and follows him in.

 

And the next thing he knows, they’re halfway through their third cups of coffee. “I don’t know how so many people we know can swear off it and survive it,” Enjolras is saying, with an amusing degree of vehemence. (Maybe Grantaire’s been mistaken, and this is his perfectly ordinary kind of fuel after all.)

“Oh, I know.” Grantaire says with a laugh. “Those looks of judgement, those _healthier-than-thou_ expressions! I’ll never forget them.” There are plenty of dancers who are too good at maintaining their strictly healthy diet to indulge in much caffeine, which apparently works for them, but Grantaire has always been one for a bad habit or two. Probably part of the reason he’s always an anxious wreck. “Given the choice between ballet and coffee, I know which I’d pick, no hesitation.” He jokes, all too aware that might be the best way to put it, not in his case.

Enjolras’ mouth opens, but there’s no hesitation. “Everything about you makes sense now!” He crows.

And Grantaire doesn’t even mind. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, but,” he adds, “I’m half-Italian. It’s in the blood. Speaking of in the blood, what was her name - Samira, right? Kid’s insane!”  

Enjolras nods furiously. “She was good from the moment she started. A few months ago she was pretty set on being a mermaid, but I think ballet’s become her new backup plan.”

“She’s really a natural,” Grantaire says, but he sighs wistfully. “It’s a shame.”

“What is?” Enjolras looks confused.

“That’s she’ll probably never get the chance to do it professionally, beyond these classes.”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“Oh, come on.” Grantaire rolls his eyes, not sure why Enjolras is playing ignorant. “You know it’s not something that many people actually _do_ ; it’s a lot of pointless effort to go to for a whole lot of people who try. Like, ballet’s expensive as fuck as a hobby, let alone a career - how are these kids going to maintain any of it in the long run? How would you convince a single one of their parents?”

There are new furrows in Enjolras’ brow. “Their parents can see how much they love it, can see that they have talent beyond the norm -”

“But it’s not exactly the number one career for accessibility, now is it? It’s not what you’d call practical.”

“So only the well-off can populate the field? So ballet should stay in the firm clutches of the upper-middle classes, the white, suburban bourgeoisie, the kind of people who can afford to send their three-year-olds to classes twice a week?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Grantaire refutes. “But I can tell you that my father wasn’t keen on ballet being my future. Listen, the only reason he paid my way through ballet school was for the _academic_ subjects, not the dancing, and because it would get me out of his way. Did you manage it without your family’s support?”

“No,” Enjolras declares, “but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible -”

“Eponine.” He interrupts, in a low voice. “Eponine has supported herself and her brother for years. She only made it through school on partial scholarship. Her parents want nothing to do with her, and vice versa. You’re right, it’s not impossible. But you can’t imagine how much she has _gone_ through for this -”

Enjolras looks like he’s about to protest. “No, I know,” Grantaire continues. “You’ve had obstacles as well, I don’t doubt that. But she’s had more to deal with -” whether on account of her background, or the double standards that female dancers so often face, “- and I’ve seen it, and I can tell you how much of a fucking _struggle_ it has been.” His voice cracks a little, but he swallows it down. “I know you’re trying to inspire those kids, but they’re young, they’re bright, they’ll get carried away - if you give them too much false hope, you’re only setting them up for heartbreak.”

Enjolras is silent for a moment. But then, he says, carefully; “I can see where you’re coming from, but clearly Eponine was willing to make sacrifices for it. No, wait - ballet’s not just the average career path, something you follow on a whim. You’ve got to love it. You’ve got to be invested, with all of your time, with your whole body. It doesn’t - shouldn’t - matter who you are or where you come from, if you love it like that. I don’t care about the image ballet has, about what the industry makes it seem like it’s ‘supposed to be’. Their outdated ideals, all their entrenched conservatism... that’s not what art is. That’s not what dancing is. It’s exactly the opposite, and ballet’s no exception: it shouldn’t be stuck in the same place, rehashing the same orthodox values and tired tropes all the time. Like anything, it has to adapt as a discipline, it has to evolve. It needs to be reclaimed, _reinvented_. More than anything, it needs people from outside to do that.”

Grantaire soaks this in.

“ _You’re_ doing that -” Enjolras says, leaning forwards with a sudden urgency. “You’re reinventing. Involving different people, creating from a new perspective. You’re not afraid to be different. That’s what ballet needs.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. He _wants_ to agree, he knows that. Instead, he says, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you have a point. But what can you _do_? Idealism is all well and good, but you’ve got to be pragmatic about it. The fact is, ballet - art - these things, in this world, are luxuries. There’s a reason the artist has always been starving. They’re not sustenance, however important they are. You can’t just erase baser needs.”

“Baser needs,” Enjolras murmurs, almost to himself. Grantaire keeps his gaze locked on him, waiting.

“Could you live without it?” Enjolras asks, at last. “Without ballet? Without dancing?”

 _I do_ , Grantaire nearly intones, his lips already forming the letters - but, as of a few months ago, it’s not an excuse he can use any longer. “That’s not the point. I can _survive_ without it.”

“Can you?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I don’t care what it takes,” Enjolras tells him quietly. “But there _are_ practical ways to make a difference, to open the ballet world up to change. I’ll find a way. Even if I have to pay these kids’ way. If I have to train them myself.”

Grantaire swills the dregs of cold coffee around in his cup.

 

Eponine has her laptop, her phone, and a notepad page of crossed-out names laid out around her on the floor when he looks in on her. Grantaire drops to the floor beside her while she continues to type furiously.

“What are you up to?” He asks, inching the sheet of paper around so he can read it.

“Inviting scouts from other companies to the _Iliad,_ ” she says, looking up briefly. “Marius gave me the name of someone he knew in Germany to get in touch with.”

Germany? “Would you go to Germany, though?”

“ _Would I_ ?” Eponine snorts. “Give me a job and I’ll be on the first plane out, my _ich bin ein Berliner_ speech all dusted off.”

Grantaire’s stomach twists. “With Gavroche?”

“Well, obviously,” she says matter-of-factly, “what else would I do?”

Clearly Grantaire’s face is pretty telling, because she glances at him with a softened smile, pats his knee. “It’s a long shot,” she adds. “I’m not expecting anything. Hell, we’re inviting people from all over the place; we don’t think they’ll _all_ come, not even close. But we’ve got to try. I’d rather stay in the country if I can, ‘course I would. There are plenty of companies in other cities, still. Moving would be tough.”   

Grantaire blinks.

“Wait, _we’re_?” He repeats numbly. “Who else is thinking of going?”

She holds his gaze in sympathy. “Well, you know what a shitshow this company’s been recently. I think everyone’s starting to wonder if their reputation is really worth it, so they’re just looking into their options. Courf’s got some friends in Spain. Enjolras might go back to Paris, if he has to.”

None of this has even crossed Grantaire’s mind as a possibility, and now he is reeling.

“You know I’ve been trying to leave the company for years and I still haven’t found anywhere else to go,” she reminds him. “Maybe nothing will change.”

“Mm,” Grantaire says. He means to say: _you’ll find somewhere, I know you will. You all will._

Maybe that’s what he’s afraid of.

 

Since the schedule change, the final push of rehearsals, this is the session he’s been most dreading. Enjolras’ last individual practice for Achilles.

It’s not even at the flat - they’re in the newly-painted Arcadia studio - so everything already feels off. But the mood he’s in is making it so much worse. They get through Achilles’ series of fights against a constant stream of opponents after Patroclus has died well enough - none of the people coming up against Achilles last very long by now, so most of the dancing is Enjolras’ to do, a raging medley - and they skip over the duel with Hector, since that’s been well rehearsed opposite Feuilly already. That leaves them trying to rework Achilles’ last solo when he finally relents from all his destruction. It is an end brought to his callous brutality, the moment when he hands Hector’s body over to Priam, when, before his enemy, each man gives into all his grief over the war once more.  

In this dance Achilles has to let go of his rage at last.

And Grantaire can’t do it. He can’t find any way to dance it right. Maybe he’s just had enough.

He sends Enjolras through the motions of the solo for what feels like the fiftieth time today, but it’s still full of glaring issues, awkward movements, it’s too fast and too slow at all the wrong times, and there’s no feeling in it, nothing of substance in it at all. It’s the very definition of going out not with a bang but with a whimper, and he snaps halfway through watching it. “Stop! Fucking hell, just stop.”

Enjolras stubbornly finishes his fouetté, but then rounds out of it with a heaved breath and gritted teeth. “What now?”   

“Surprise, surprise,” he bites out, “I still hate it.”

“I think it’s fine -”

“Trust me, your dancing isn’t making it _any_ better. We might as well scrap it all.”

Enjolras throws up his hands, makes direct eye contact now. “What’s gotten _into_ you?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Grantaire snarks. “You’re usually better at taking criticism.”

“You’re usually not such an asshole about it,” Enjolras snaps. “When you have something constructive to offer, I’ll take it on board.”

“What? ‘This bit still looks like shit’ is too all-encompassing for you? I’d break it down, but I don’t even know where to fucking start.” It’s his last hour like this - his last hour dancing with Enjolras - and he’s ruining every second of it, and he hates himself for it.

“What do you want me to do? You hate every single one of my suggestions.”  

They’ve come so _far_ , and now everything’s falling apart.

Grantaire’s nails gouge a row of crescents into his palms. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Okay, so we’ll call it a day. There’s still time.”

How is Enjolras so unaware? “There’s _no more time!_ ” Grantaire yells. “This is _it_. We’re all out of time.”

Enjolras steps forwards, too earnest for his own good. “Listen to me. You can’t panic now, not when you’re already so close. Really, you’ve already done it, you’re already there - and I’m sorry if it’s not what you want it to be. I’m sorry if it’s not quite right. But we all believe in it. We all believe in you.”

He breathes heavily, bitterly. They’re all wrong to. “That doesn’t help me at all.”  

“I don’t know what else to say,” Enjolras implores. “If you can’t hear that, can’t you just hold on for another week? You're not in this alone. Can’t you at least believe in the rest of us?”

Grantaire shuts his eyes to block everything out. All his fooling himself that he could finish this, and here he is, unable to face the reality of it. _You have to_ , he tells himself. Hold on for another week, and then go and cut the ropes just like he did last time, just like that, just let go.

“I’m sorry!” Enjolras erupts, into the silence. “I’m so sorry. I wish we hadn’t rushed it. I wish we could have put less pressure on you. I _wish_ we had time. I’m sorry that we don’t.”

“Don’t be,” he rasps, turning away. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

“No one made you do this, you know,” Enjolras says, confounded. “If you hate ballet this much, why did you come back to it? After all this time?”

Good fucking question. All this has been is a long-winded lesson in reopening old wounds, wounds that he knows now will be much harder to suture a second time around.

“You know what?” Grantaire answers. “I don’t know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slowness of these updates... we're nearly there, though!
> 
> The beginning of this chapter is thanks to Laura for insisting I couldn't write a fic without the good old bedsharing trope. Admittedly, it's not bedsharing, but hopefully it's close enough ;) 
> 
> The end of this chapter is thanks to Grantaire being a great big idiot, so... just the usual, then. 
> 
> It's coming up to the last couple weeks of term so chapter nine might be a little more delayed than I'd like. That said, I'm also seeing Sergei Polunin (ballet R!inspiration himself) and his new ballet project at the end of this week (!!!!!!!!) so, y'know, I'll definitely be in the ballet mood.
> 
> As usual, thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ballet gets its finishing touches, there's a surprise addition to the Iliad cast, and Grantaire is battling a bad case of the feelings. Oh, and Enjolras wants to talk to him.

He pads along the edge of the stage, one foot after the other, tracing the tape markings they have made on it with his toes. On one side, the stage is awash in sweltering light; on his other, the spotlights filter out into shadow in the auditorium. Grantaire idly stretches a hand out and breaches that darkness, as if he is skimming his fingertips in water. They’re teetering on the edge. Dress rehearsal is only a few days away. He should have butterflies by now, but the pit of his stomach is hollow as he stares out at the abyss of shrouded rows of seats. Renovated and restored: the theatre they’ll be leaving is like a different building. He half wants to burrow down in it and never leave - flit about the rafters haunting the place, maybe.

“Ready to go again,” Bossuet declares, over the tannoy system. “We’ve got it this time, I swear!” He’s been running back and forth between the tech booth and backstage like a maniac, attempting to get his ducks - ducklings, really, since some of the people he’s enlisted are still practically teenagers - in a line.

Grantaire gives Jehan a nod, and they mark through the part again. It’s Patroclus’ big solo, soaring and epic: a heroic moment of excellence, an _aristeia_. Patroclus has begged to take Achilles’ place at the forefront of the army, adorned in Achilles’ own armour, and leads the charge right to the walls of Troy, uniting all the Greeks again at last.

It’s vast and awesome and an ambitious sequence. Jehan has proven spectacular at imitating Enjolras’ Achillean style, down to the peculiar timing of those fouetté turns. The corps start to spur Patroclus on, until Jehan is racing ahead, almost leaving them all behind: Combeferre’s music swells, and the speed of the steps increase, and they’ve thrown in leap after leap, grand jetés and jetés entrelacé, and by that point Jehan is so light and so rarely on two feet that they might as well be flying.

Of course, it is equally a dance of overreaching, so every arm and every position is stretched to its limits, daring to extend every phrase a little further than is safe. And that will cost Patroclus, soon enough.

Grantaire can’t picture it being any more epic than how Jehan already performs it, so he only offers minor comments about timing and placement while they test it with the lighting. Everything’s going to plan this time.

It’s pretty damn bittersweet. Jehan has their own flights of melancholy sometimes, so perhaps it’s not just Grantaire’s dismal spirits that are catching, but, once Bossuet and his tech crew have signed off for a break, he and Jehan both sink to the stage floor, side by side, dangling their feet gloomily over the edge and the orchestra pit.

“Can you stand it?” Grantaire blurts out, out of nowhere.

“Hm?”

“Not dancing.” He declares slowly. “Ballet not being your career. Do you miss it, do you mind?”

Jehan sighs, which says more than anything else could.

Yes, they mind.

Grantaire sighs, too.

“It’s been fun, hasn’t it?” Jehan offers, at last.

He has lied to Enjolras about this already - _I’ll be glad when it’s over_ , he hasn’t forgotten - but, somehow, he can’t bring himself to do it again. His mouth pulls taut.

“Going back to the poetry magazine is something,” Jehan remarks, when it becomes clear Grantaire has passed on answering. “It’s better than it has been. It’s not ballet, obviously, it’s nothing like it, but as long as there’s room for creativity, you know? There’s some liberation to be found. I can’t explain how it helps, exactly, but it’s still filling that - that gaping chasm in me. Work, free time, wherever, I always have to be doing _something_ that means something to me; I have to feed it somehow. It’s kind of a monster, this need.” They curl their hand up almost unconsciously, placing it at the base of their sternum as if that’s where it comes from. “When I’m not, when there’s nothing in there, I might as well be a zombie, wandering around half-asleep, half-dead.”

He can feel Jehan’s eyes flicker towards him.

Will it come back, that feeling of absence, when this is over and done with? Did Grantaire have it before? Who was he without ballet? Still someone, he thinks, he must have been. Between the bar work and the library, he might have even starved that monster out.

“Maybe it’s time to lay that goddamn monster to rest,” he says pointedly. Okay, so last time it didn’t get its due resolution, he supposes, he cut it off too soon. The _Iliad_ is allowed to be his encore, his chance to tie up loose ends in a neat double bow.

“What are you going to do instead?”  

He shrugs, helpless. But if there’s one thing he knows, anyway, it’s that a career in ballet is a pile of shit. He repeats this sentiment aloud.

“Is it?” Jehan challenges calmly.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says, with feeling. “Everyone has such wild dreams of what it will be, but where’s the reward in it, what’s the point? Everyone likes ballet, sure, but can you still, when you only get the barest sliver, the sorriest excuse of a life outside it? You give _years_ to it, years with _no_ room for creativity, no room for anything but routine’s bruisings and beatings: doing the same old things over and over again every day, in the hopes of what? That you’ll get to do the same things over and over again for a few nights on stage? Where’s the end goal in all that repetition? To get to do the bloody Nutcracker every year, well, hallelujah! We get to be the little wind-up toys we are. And what about the things they _don’t_ prepare you for - that you could break your legs anytime, break your neck before you get anywhere at all? Like, and even if you don’t - even if everything goes right - it’s still so short-lived, every ballet career. You can put every _fucking_ thing you have into it, and still it doesn’t last. And what does it let you keep, what have you got left then? Nothing.”

“Okay,” Jehan considers, “but if you’re going to put it that way... well, nothing lasts.”

“You’re right,” he returns, splintering further into savagery. “ _Life_ is a pile of shit. Who the hell thought any of this was a good idea? Fuck life.”

“Mm, fuck life,” Jehan agrees solemnly. “But, in the end, I s’pose life fucks us all. So, in the meantime - if you have the chance to - you might as well do what you love.”

Grantaire means to laugh. “But how?” He implores instead, cringing at the way his voice cracks. “How can you be sure that you love it _enough_? That you’re not just kidding around;  that it’s not something you’ve just built up in your head, a lie you keep telling yourself?”

Jehan grimaces. “Look, I can’t honestly tell you that it’s all inspirational highs from here on out, magic carpet rides; maybe it’ll never live up to everything you want it to be. Routine, commitment - sure, they’re heavy things. It’s something special - sacred - so you’re scared to touch it too much in case the feeling rubs off and wears away. But if you love it that much, is it any better to box it up and push it away? Whatever happens, there will be down days. But if you care enough, you can love it in spite of the down days: you figure out what you love about it and remind yourself why you do, and you make the good things count for all the more.”

Grantaire scratches uncomfortably at his shoulder.

“You’re allowed to change your mind,” Jehan adds softly. “Things change. People change. And that’s okay. Sometimes you can’t even know what you feel until it’s gone. But no one else can tell you what’s worth it and what isn’t; that’s up to you to decide.”

“What if I... I’m not cut out for it?” He murmurs.

He’s a born natural at screwing things up, after all.

(Abruptly, he realises that he hasn’t even spoken to Enjolras since exploding at him in their last rehearsal. Apologised, he means. Shit, shit, _shit_.)

“If you care enough, you’ll find a way to make it work. There’s no easy way for it, I guess. It’s always hard to love something real,” they say, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. “But you trust yourself, and you try.”

Grantaire inclines his head in thought.

“Sorry about the magic carpet rides,” Jehan adds, after a beat. “I watched Aladdin again last night.”

He crumples into relieved laughter. “What the heck, _again_?” He rolls his eyes, a hundred times more grateful for getting another perspective than he lets on. But, man, you let Jehan get philosophical...

“I’m in the mood to help you, dude,” Jehan replies, smugly sing-song. “You ain’t never had a friend like me.”

“Alright, alright. I get it. You’re the best.”

“Mmhmm, but can I trust you to figure out for yourself what you love?” Jehan asks, peering over again with newly narrowed focus and a crooked smile. “Or shall I present you with my hunches? I have a few.”  

“Nope, I’m good,” he says hastily, scrambling up to his feet to avoid any further discussion, because he feels like he knows what’s coming. “You’re welcome to leave it there, thanks very much.”

“Aww, I’m so proud of my boy,” Jehan exclaims, launching up after him with arms outstretched. Grantaire runs.

 

 _Everyone_ congregates for the last few rehearsal days, as they try and get through it all as many times as possible. The orchestra’s musicians are practicing there in the pit; Combeferre has taken it upon himself to personally conduct them. Meanwhile, Grantaire and Joly are encamped downstage to keep a close eye on whoever’s being put through their paces, calling out reminders and making adjustments as they go. Those of them not dancing are either limbering up in the auditorium aisles or draped across the first couple rows of the stalls, watching the bits of the ballet they haven’t yet seen complete.

“Okay,” Joly says, practically preening about getting to hold an excessively long checklist on a clipboard. “That’s enough of the corps and the funeral games - where’s Gavroche? We need Hermes for that interlude...” (Gavroche has selected an array of parts for himself, the messenger god and Achilles’ chariot driver included, and has _also_ managed to write himself into the background of a fair few battle scenes, not that Grantaire minds.) He is nowhere to be found, so Joly flits to the next thing. “Let’s move on to the final scenes, from Priam’s entrance and through Achilles’ solo.”

Oh no. Grantaire’s heart drops out of his stomach. He still hasn’t fixed it for Enjolras. He can practically count the number of hours they have left before the first performance, and he hasn’t figured out to do with that lacklustre ending. He’s _tried_ , taken it back to square one and the studio at the flat, but still nothing. The mental block has only gotten worse over time, and the weight of it - it’s like being flattened by a boulder.

“Enjolras? Good, you’re there.” Joly gets Enjolras’ attention at the side of the stage. “Are you ready to go? It’s all done, right?”  

Grantaire scrunches up his face. Possibly the only thing worse than admitting he’s fucked up and not actually finished the ballet, is _not_ admitting it, and letting it dawn on everyone in the room when, despite Enjolras’ best efforts, the piece plainly stutters out. “Uh, it’s not quite -”

“Yes, we’re ready,” Enjolras intercedes. He takes his place, shooting Grantaire a nod, a silent, _trust me on this_. Though, before Combeferre can bring in the orchestra, he qualifies: “If I’ve practised it enough, that is. I’m sure Grantaire will still have some notes.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what Enjolras’ plan is, here, but he doesn’t protest.

The lights are low and flickering to set the scene of the Greek camp at night. It starts as it should, with Mabeuf slipping on in Priam’s robes. He sinks into a pose of supplication just the same, kisses Achilles’ hands. The stage is empty but for them, two grieving enemies. There is a spear propped up in a corner behind them, and Enjolras is unmoving at first, a lingering suspense in what he will do.

And then with Priam waiting there, Achilles, still acting as barrier between father and son, goes to Hector’s corpse on the opposite side of the stage. He bends over it as he once did Patroclus’, and then backs away from it into his solo, taking stuttering steps en pointe.

Strangely enough, it still has all the steps of Grantaire’s original choreography. At the same time, he scarcely recognises it. Maybe Combeferre has re-jigged the music? It feels softer, slower. Enjolras has altered the pace of his movements, and the order of it slightly - he has actually arranged Grantaire’s scattered choreography into a form that feels better. Which is not to say it is structured or controlled, because it isn’t: it’s still broken, but broken in the way it ought to be. It’s more reminiscent now of the pas de deux with Patroclus and Achilles’ duel with Hector, but with no partner in this, every movement is achingly incomplete. There's nothing left to love, and no glory in the fight. Achilles’ spins are imbued with echoes of that destructive rage - a leap still bursts out of him here and there - but there is no energy in them anymore, and this time he takes the weariness to a new level. He almost falls out of his fouettés, a spinning coin on the verge of collapse; he piqués onto pointe less and less as he goes, slowly reverting to arabesques and attitudes on demi-pointe and then to feet flat on the floor, returned to the state of an ordinary man, human again. There is more finality to it than when he has ever danced it before, when at last he steps back and stretches out his arm in the open gesture to let Priam pass, free to take his son’s body back.

The solo - the ballet - ends with Achilles alone on stage again, on his knees, ruined by his rage, rage transformed to grief.

And then the lights come up, and it is Enjolras. It’s ten times the moment he saw him first as Apollo, when it was so easy to forget that there was someone real behind the whole illusion. This time, it’s less the point of forgetting and rather the remembrance; more the moment when Achilles vanishes and Enjolras returns. The knowledge that he _is_ real that comes rushing over him, hits Grantaire in the chest like a ton of bricks or a tidal wave.  

He can’t really take in the round of nodding, the impressed faces, the smattering of applause from the dancers in the stalls. Instead, before he quite knows what he’s doing, his hesitant steps forwards gain haste and he flings himself towards Enjolras, throws his arms around him.

He meets no resistance from Enjolras, who relaxes into him. Grantaire buries his chin into Enjolras’ shoulder.

“I really tried,” Enjolras offers, in his ear.

“Thank you,” he breathes, but it feels like an admission of something more.

“I wasn’t looking at it right,” Enjolras continues, hushed apology in his tone. “I don’t think I understood. The war isn’t something he can walk away from anymore, he realises that; there’s nothing for him beyond it. But the pain, and the suffering - it had no worth, in the end. It couldn’t bring anything back. So he’s just tired of it all, isn’t he? He's ready for it to end.”

He half nods, half shakes his head in incoherent response, holds on a little tighter.

“I’m sorry if that’s how you feel,” Enjolras murmurs, “about all of this.”

Grantaire pulls back abruptly, steadying his feet and his gaze, forcing himself to meet Enjolras’ eyes squarely. “No,” he returns. “No - that’s not how I feel.” He has to pull the words he needs up from his gut. Un-dredging them takes concerted effort. “I don’t want it to be over,” he says. “I don’t want it to end.”

Enjolras tugs him forward, back into the hug, and if Joly wasn’t awkwardly trying to regain his attention, if they weren’t about to have to go over the details of the solo at least five times more, if they weren’t standing right in front of everyone else, Grantaire thinks he could have happily stayed there for a lifetime.    

 

They carry on as if nothing has happened; there’s no choice but to do so, there’s too much to get through. Grantaire keeps finding himself searching for Enjolras on stage even when he’s not there, gets sidetracked about him when there are clearly other things he should be doing.

The next afternoon, they’ve skipped back to another of Achilles’ scenes, after the gods have filed off. Now they’re wading through the more martial scenes of Act Three, and everyone’s focus is trained on Enjolras and Feuilly, Achilles and Hector, as they circle each other. He almost feels guilty when he lets his gaze linger on Enjolras, even now that he’s _supposed_ to be watching him, and he is hyper-aware of Joly at his shoulder.

So he tries to throw himself into catching out the smallest details, perfecting the duel to the nth degree. He pauses them to readjust their positions, to repeat a movement here or there, and then retreats as they go again.

“Enjolras, will you stop making eyes at Feuilly!” Grantaire calls out at one point, much too loudly. “This isn’t a romantic pas de deux, you’re trying to kill him and feed his body to the dogs, remember?”

“I _know that_ ,” Enjolras intones. Courfeyrac snorts from the sidelines.

Grantaire kind of knows he’s being a shit again, but at least he’s safe in his comfort zone. “Can we see maybe a little of the Achilles rage, then?”

“This _is_ rage,” Enjolras huffs, gazing intently at Feuilly as he stalks nearer. Feuilly makes his lunge, a swinging miss.

“Uh, I’m sorry to tell you, but that’s ‘Hector, run away with me and have my babies’ right there,” Grantaire points out, mimicking the look with extra-fluttery eyelashes for emphasis. He pretends he doesn’t get an internal thrill when Enjolras shoots him a dirty look.

Sound carries pretty well on the stage, so everyone in the vicinity hears the not-so-subtle mutter that follows. “Trust Grantaire to know the difference.”

He is sure he would have something sardonic to say if his cheeks hadn’t erupted into redness, so he settles for throwing Jehan narrowed eyes. It might not have been them, though; Enjolras is staring at Courfeyrac.

Grantaire clears his throat, and when it looks like Enjolras is going to shoot him another glare, he hurriedly prompts the music.

On the plus side, this time there is a newly murderous bent to Enjolras’ steps.

  
“Hey, can I talk to you?” Enjolras asks him later that day, after they’ve nearly collided in the wings.

“Uh, maybe later,” Grantaire feigns, turning quickly on his heel. “I’ve just got to get this scene going -”

  
He sees Enjolras loitering in the wings again later out of the corner of his eye, and, since he still hasn’t managed to settle the memory of that hug or the hurricane of butterflies in his stomach, he dashes over to the pit instead.

“Oh, hey,” Grantaire interjects, accosting Combeferre hopefully, “I wanted to ask, can we try that piece with the clarinets coming in on the corps’ last turn instead of after?”

“I’ll try anything once,” Combeferre replies, marking down a note.

Courfeyrac, passing by, very distinctly waggles his eyebrows.

Grantaire catches Ferre smirking into his sheet music.

 

Morning of the dress rehearsal, Enjolras still has some unknown purpose in his eyes.

Thankfully, before Enjolras can reach him, Gavroche starts yelling for him, so he gives Enjolras a brief wave of apology and clambers up the studio stairs.

Gavroche holds the door open for him, which is... ominous. Grantaire steps in gingerly. The room is otherwise empty but for Bahorel, who’s leaning on his elbow on the piano top, perfectly poised.  

“Hey, man,” Grantaire says, a bemused grin pulling at the corner of his mouth already.

“Grantaire,” Bahorel declares, sauntering over towards him. “How’s it going?”

Gavroche settles himself against the wall, watching in interest.

“Not too bad yet,” Grantaire replies breezily. “But it’s dress today, so who the hell knows what kind of a disaster it’ll be.”

Bahorel offers him a broad grin. “Big change from the ol’ bartending life, isn’t it?”

“Guess so,” Grantaire says. “These days, the only barre in my vocabulary is this one.” He reaches over to caress it lovingly, for added effect.

(In his vocabulary until tomorrow, at least. Maybe it won’t be the end of doing ballet, Grantaire doesn’t know. He’s decided he’s not allowed to think about it until the _Iliad_ is over. He’ll see what happens then.)

“Anyway, I hear your boy Achilles tries to fight a river, right?”

“Uh, yeah?” He answers, suddenly even more confused.

“Cool. Well, here’s your river god.” He’s pointing at his own chest.

Grantaire snorts. “Good one.”

Bahorel lifts an eyebrow, challenging him. “Nah, I’m serious. I want in.”

Grantaire won’t lie, the thought takes a while to sink in.

“Who managed to prompt this miracle?” He asks, after the appropriate five-minute-long laughing fit. He glances over his shoulder at Gavroche, who is pretending to be busy examining the freckles on his hand.

Bahorel shrugs, nonchalant. “What’s important is that it’ll give my parents the shock of their lives when they see me up there. It might even throw them off hounding me about Law for a bit. Might find my new calling, y’know.”

“Fair enough,” Grantaire agrees.

“So. Room for a cameo?”

“Yeah, I think we can work you in somewhere,” he declares, affecting a more pompous directorial tone as he tries to hide his smirk. “We’ve got a couple spare costumes lying around here, actually -”

Gavroche, already two steps ahead, produces a pile of things from his rucksack and presents them to Bahorel. “Suit up,” he says.

Bahorel bundles the outfit into his arms, one hand unfolding the layers in interest.

“Right, once you get him sorted, bring him down to the stage and we’ll figure out some steps for Scamander,” Grantaire tells Gavroche, and the pair of them are now wearing manic grins.

Gavroche salutes him. Grantaire turns for the door again, but pauses at Bahorel’s exclamation of, “What the bloody hell is _this_?”

(He’s waving around the smallest piece of fabric in the pile, the thing that doesn’t look far off a nude-coloured thong.)

Grantaire gives him a hearty snort. “Welcome to the world of dance belts, my friend.”

As he cheerfully descends the stairs, he can hear Bahorel muttering the words again, dumbstruck. “Dance... belt.”

There comes a smack, much as though he’s been whacked in the face with it.

“C’mon, get it together, bro!” Gavroche bellows. “Be a man!”

 

Later on, Feuilly is coaching Bahorel through his moves (all three of them) in the wings whilst Joly takes the lead at running through another scene. Eponine ambles over to Grantaire on a water break, taking careful sips to avoid spilling any on her costume.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hi,” Grantaire answers, with an easy grin.

“So, honestly? I can’t believe we made it here.”

He exhales a huff of laughter. “You’re telling me.”

“You did good,” Eponine declares, and that there’s not even a twinge of sarcasm in it says something.

“Yeah,” Grantaire echoes, gazing across them all on stage. “We did good, you could say that.”

After her next mouthful of water, she adds, “Enjolras wants to talk to you, by the way.”

Well, his persistence is no surprise. Grantaire side-eyes her warily. “Did he, uh, say what about?”

She rolls her eyes. “Just that it’s something he wants to discuss with you himself.”

“Hm. Okay. Thanks.” _So, Grantaire,_ he predicts, _about that hug - what exactly were you thinking?_

Or worse - ten times worse - it’ll be something as simple as _I was thinking about those assemblés_... and before he can help himself, Grantaire will answer that with a, _how weird, I was thinking about how I’m madly and ridiculously in love with you_ , and then he’ll have to go lock himself in the basement for a hundred years.

Potentially even _worse_ is that he has allowed a tiny, unhinged sector of his imagination to fashion the thought of Enjolras saying to him, _hey, why don’t you come to Paris and audition there with me?_ And that, Grantaire tells his brain, is too far. Too audacious, even for a delusion.

Can’t he just get this ballet finished first before he has to face anything else?

“Well?” Eponine says pointedly. At his blank look, she continues: “Aren’t you going to find him?”    

“Oh, yeah, of course -” Grantaire is already shuffling back towards Joly. “I totally will, I’ve just got to do one or two more things here -”

  
In the end, he decides _fuck it_ , because tomorrow is _opening night,_ and the day will be madness, and it’s not like they’ll have time to talk while they’re all performing. And whatever it is he wants to say, Grantaire can’t bring himself to give up a few more minutes - a last few - alone in Enjolras’ company, even if he does make a fool of himself.  

Everyone is all packed up and going home - backstage is still a mess, but everyone’s just accepted it’s going to have to stay that way - and, after being waylaid a few times as he traverses the maze of theatre hallways, he starts to suspect that Enjolras might have already left. He catches Bossuet and Musichetta as they head for the door, asks them if they know where Enjolras is. Neither of them have seen him.

He wanders down the hallway, ducking in to double-check the dressing rooms, and to switch off the last few lights that have been left on. The room on his right is empty, but the door to next room on his left is still ajar. “Enjolras?” He calls, from the corridor.

Grantaire steps in, a hand already reaching for the light switch as he surveys the room, one of the costume racks casting a long shadow across the floor. Then he stops, because Enjolras is there.

“Hey, so, everyone said you still wanted to talk to -”

Enjolras _is_ there, but he is hunched over in a chair, his elbows on the counter that girds three of the walls, its horseshoe shape underscoring a row of mirrors. He can’t see much of Enjolras in the reflections; his face is shielded by his hands, his fingers dug well into his hair.

“Enjolras? Everyone’s gone home, are you -” Grantaire breaks off again, disconcerted by the fact that he hasn’t so much as looked up.

“Sorry,” he says instead, still hovering awkwardly by the door. “Do you want me to go?”

Enjolras shakes his head numbly, and gets out in a small voice: “Can you stay?”

“Sure,” Grantaire breathes, the word hitching on his tongue. The rest of the chairs have been stacked lopsidedly in a corner with a pile of stuff left atop them, so he improvises, pacing towards the corner and perching on the makeup countertop, at a right angle to Enjolras’ chair. He’s not quite within touching distance, so he starts bouncing his knee anxiously. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

No, he’s not.  

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

There’s silence for a while. He feels like this isn’t exactly the topic Enjolras was originally intending to discuss.

“I feel sick. As soon as I think about it - tomorrow - it’s like I’m about to gag,” Enjolras says, his voice scratchy. “I can’t do it.”

So these are nerves, a last-minute panic. Enjolras has holed himself up alone, like he is waiting for the sickness to pass.

“Today went really well,” Grantaire points out patiently. “You’ll do it just as well tomorrow.”

Enjolras’ shoulders are trembling, folding in on themselves. “My mind’s gone blank. Up until now, I knew everything, and now - every single thing we’ve worked on, I don’t know it, I can’t get it right -”

“Breathe,” he instructs, stopping Enjolras there. A few minutes tick by until Enjolras has regained some rhythm.  

“Listen, what you need is to go home and get some rest. I know how much you like to be the last one to leave after a rehearsal, but -” He shakes his head in fond reproach. “It’ll all have come back to you by tomorrow. You dance it so well you could probably perform it in your sleep - tomorrow night, it will be fine again. You’ll be great.”

“I don’t know, I don’t think I...”

“But you can do anything!” Grantaire interjects.

“What?” Enjolras’ eyebrows are knitted together.

“Come on,” he continues, trying to be encouraging (and with only minor exaggeration), “you could come out on stage, do a single pirouette, and get a standing ovation. I mean, you could do nothing but come out and trip over - fall flat on your face! - and still make it look graceful.”  

“Don’t be stupid,” Enjolras replies, but the command is still muffled, softened by the despairing hands over his face.  

“And the insane thing is, he thinks I’m kidding,” Grantaire mutters out loud. “Enjolras, please. I can promise you, if anyone has got this whole performance in the bag already, it’s you. You make everything you _do_ look effortless. You’re good. God, what am I saying? Better than _good_.”

Grantaire watches as he lifts his head out of his hands, ever so slightly, swallows carefully, and briefly glances sideways. Enjolras’ eyes are bright, but his tone is skeptical.

“Do you think?”

Grantaire has rarely felt the urge to bang his head against the wall at someone else’s obliviousness more than this. He splutters incoherently for a moment, and then adds, “You _know_ I do.”

“How would I know that?” Enjolras counters, and he suddenly sounds indignant.

Grantaire is, quite simply, fucking nonplussed. “I... can’t believe you don’t know I think that? Have I not said it before?”

“No, actually,” Enjolras answers, and before Grantaire shrivels up in shame, he is granted a spark of relief that at least the sudden curtness has cancelled out the waver in his voice, that perhaps a little of Enjolras’ anxiety has faded.

Then, he comes to terms with the fact that maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t spelled it out well enough before. He guesses, well, that he hasn’t _said_ it in rehearsals - but it goes without saying! - and maybe he criticises more often than he praises, but... Shit. Enjolras has worked so naturally against every barrage of criticism - works at so high a standard that all of Grantaire’s carping on is usually nit-picking to begin with - that he’s let himself forget that he is not the only person in the universe susceptible to stress. Enjolras even _told_ him, weeks, months ago, about his anxiety issues. And Grantaire, what? Aside from that hug... Never had it once in him to give a serious compliment, straight out?

Right, he should roll out of here right now and find himself the nearest dustbin, because, all wise-cracking aside, he’s a lousy, thoughtless, self-centred piece of garbage.   

“Okay, but I cast you as Achilles! The lead role!” He protests. It’s not an excuse, but Enjolras can’t claim to be _totally_ unaware that Grantaire’s been mooning over his talents from day one.

Enjolras shifts his legs around to turn properly towards Grantaire, and gives a shaky laugh. “I was half-convinced you just did that because you thought I’d do well at being an asshole.”

“Excuse you,” Grantaire objects, as earnest as he has ever been. “If anyone’s the asshole here, it’s absolutely me.”  

Enjolras shakes his head slightly, but Grantaire is more affected by that twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smile waiting to be stirred.

He means to go on joking to pull Enjolras out of this uncharacteristic slump, but his words start spilling out differently. “Meanwhile, you - you’re something else. Honestly, you’re one of the best dancers I’ve seen in a _long_ time. Maybe ever. I don’t think you _get_ the effect that you can have just by dancing, but... If you wanted to inspire people, you’ve done it. You’re just...” He’s leaning forwards, teetering dangerously on the edge of the counter, their knees close to knocking now.

“Everything you do, everything you are, I _believe_ it. And, hell, I wish I could love it like you love it. I wish I had even a fraction of it in me. It’s not even just about the ballet, it’s - everything, I wish I could love _anything_ the way you do. I mean, maybe that’s why it’s been so easy to l-”

Somewhere in the middle of his sentence he lifts his eyes to meet Enjolras’ gaze and gets caught there, in the measure of his stillness and the graveness of his look, and the words Grantaire wants to say dry up in his mouth.

Desperately, he looks up at the ceiling.

“To love... doing this. With you, all of you, you know.” Grantaire bites his lip. It’s true too, he supposes. It’s part of it, maybe. But he can’t honestly bring himself to look at Enjolras again after that, so he just...

“Sorry, I should -” He rakes a hand through his hair, agitated. “ _You_ should get home.” He staggers to his feet and lurches out of that confined corner, a fleeting hand pressed to Enjolras’ arm in the gentlest apology he can muster. “Please get some rest.”

He catches Enjolras standing up in the mirror’s reflection as he goes, but he turns the corner, and waits there until he has heard his footsteps and the door click.

Grantaire isn’t sure he breathes again until he is swallowed by the air outdoors.

 _See you tomorrow_ , he thinks to add, too late.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (help my dissertation is due in ten days and instead of finishing it I've been working on this) 
> 
> Anyway. Yo. So... thanks to everyone who's been reading along, it's been such great motivation for me. <3 Chapter Ten isn't quite finished, but given we're up to Opening Night already, I'm fairly certain it'll be the last one ;) Thanks for hanging in there! 
> 
> (An extra ramble, for those of you who were asking about Polunin's show! To start off my account, I can say only: AHHH. Goddamn was it exciting to see him in the flesh! I was also pretty amused by his picks for the programme, v. Greek mythology themed (what can I say, he and I are on the same ballet wavelength, hahaha)... He was pretty good in Icarus, and then after a nightmarish middle work (dark, modern, abstract, lots of rattling china, has given me a legitimate fear of teacups?) he was back as Narcissus. I wasn't sold on the gaudy staging but I'm a sucker for the Echo & Narcissus myth, and he was fab when he was actually dancing. That said, he spent at least ten minutes of it pretending to be asleep on a model planet, which was lovely I guess, but I'm also there internally yelling: dUDE, DID I PAY TO SEE YOU SLEEP? DANCE, SERGEI, DANCE!!! It was enjoyable but sadly, reviews-wise, it wasn't really the ballet comeback people were expecting from him. Similarly, I guess we'll see how Grantaire's project goes for him :P)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Iliad_. Opening night was always going to be a rollercoaster.

“T-minus 15 until the Trojan War hits, guys. Get your butts in gear. Eagle One over,” Bossuet’s voice blares out cheerfully backstage. (At least one of them is having too much fun tonight.)

“What does it, uh, look like out there?” Grantaire asks Feuilly, squinting his eyes apprehensively.

“What is it you’d prefer to hear?” Feuilly murmurs back, looking at him sidelong from where he’s been spying on the auditorium through a tiny crevice between the wings and the safety curtain. (It’s like it’s his first ballet school performance all over again.) “That it’s a full house, or that it’s totally empty?”

 _That_ is a good question. Grantaire opens his hands helplessly, gives a despairing laugh. “Both options sound terrible.”

Cosette pokes her head up from under Feuilly’s chin, where she’s been peeking out at the audience too. “It’s a bigger turnout than we thought,” she whispers, tearing _that_ plaster off pretty ruthlessly for him. “I think those are some of the scouts we invited. And there -” she waves a finger, “second row - I think they’re company people.”

Feuilly does a double-take, and then turns to Grantaire to nod in confirmation. “Not old Walrus face, but definitely a few of the higher-ups,” he adds.

Well, shit. He supposes this will go one of two ways: either this’ll be roughly two and a half hours of pure hell for them, in which they are made to regret not getting the _Iliad_ on their own stage and made to see half of their own company dancing better than they ever have, or it’s hell for Grantaire, as his makers (and unmakers) get a stalls-eye view to see him crash and burn. With ice cream at the interval.

“Great,” Grantaire says. He can’t even rake his hand through his hair to cope right now. Goddamned hairspray.

“My dad’s here, too!” Cosette adds brightly, like that makes it all better.

“Awesome,” Grantaire says, with feeling. (What _kind_ of feeling? Dread? Terror? No one knows.)

“This is Eagle One.” Bossuet booms again. “T-minus 10, baby!”

Joly catches them there, and shoos them all away from the curtain with a Trojan spear.

 

And so the whirlwind begins.

Grantaire winds his way to the other side of the wings for Odysseus’ first entrance the long way round, wandering through the backstage rabbit warren to exchange a final thumbs-up or shoulder pat with every dancer he passes. This is it.

Joly gave the obligatory motivational speech earlier in the afternoon, thanking them for all the hard work they’d put in and the sacrifices they had made, for being the best corps anyone could have imagined, for making the _Iliad_ such an inspiring experience. The sentiments are Grantaire’s, too, but he didn’t have the words. He would have tried - he knows he was supposed to be the one to do it - but his tongue has been stuck to the roof of his mouth all day. A rare phenomenon for someone who can’t usually shut up... But he’s never been one for pep talks.

He hopes they know, though, the whole huge group of them. Hopes they know how much they mean to him. That he couldn’t have done this without them... That, if he had it his way, he’d never _have_ to do it without them.

But he’s too much a bundle of raw nerves right now. In fact, he feels pretty woozy. Arming up - that is, putting on Odysseus’ military costume - might as _well_ have been gearing up to go out onto the battlefield as far as the sensation went, for all that it feels is riding on this. Grantaire is half-convinced he’d rather be dropped in the middle of an ancient battlefield right now. At least he’d be able to scream at the sky, there.

But this is his war, and he knows full well there’s nothing for it but to fight it.

“Glory or death,” he tells himself, with a hefty exhale. “Glory or death, bro.”

 

Achilles’ first entrance is from the side of the stage Grantaire just left, so he crosses paths with Enjolras in the hallway.

“You okay?” He manages to ask, catching him lightly by the wrist. He hasn’t had much of a chance to speak to him since last night.

“Yeah.” Enjolras looks about as nauseous as Grantaire feels, but his answer is calm enough.

“It’s going to go great,” Grantaire tells him, wishing there was something he could say that would actually help. “You’re gonna kill it.” He ducks his gaze hastily, about to carry on his way, but before he does - his fingers slide down from Enjolras’ wrist, briefly pressing his hand. As reassurance, he supposes.

Enjolras smiles faintly.

 

And then he’s in the wings again, and it’s happening, really happening.

Polite applause as Ferre takes his place, a held breath as the orchestra strikes up. Grantaire pinches himself as the curtains rise.

The sets are simple and sparse, evoking the Greek camp in sandy golds, the walls of Troy looming in the background. The corps are on first to conjure the scene, and Grantaire watches them with his heart in his mouth. Then, the main players are on - Grantaire included - and he does one last relevé in preparation, closing his eyes before the cue.

His own steps are nothing to him, since he supposes he knows every step in the whole ballet, and besides, Odysseus doesn’t have much to do; he stands among the corps, a mostly removed observer of the quarrel that ensues. _Grantaire_ is anything but removed, watching Enjolras round on Agamemnon, exuding barely-disguised scorn. There’s not a trace of anxiety in it. Neither in Courf’s blustering rage, which is entirely believable (though it does also make Grantaire want to laugh, because now is he can’t help but remember the last time he saw Courf angry about something in the studio, getting so worked up that he’d started swinging his skipping rope around his head like helicopter blades). Grantaire becomes no less distracted as the Agamemnon-Achilles-Athena-Briseis pas de quatre develops, his mind as much on all the past rehearsal sessions as the dance unfolding perfectly before his eyes.

Not _everything_ goes perfectly. To start with, Grantaire hasn’t been expecting it to, and he can’t say for sure, but most of the time he thinks they have gotten away with their mishaps with the audience oblivious.

Paris-Marius nearly crashes into Aphrodite-Jehan when they appear in position to escort him off after the duel with Agamemnon, his last pirouette almost overzealous; Helen-Cosette’s shoe slips a little on a patch of the stage and she falls further into Paris’ arms than she was meant to; at one point, one of the Trojans drops their shield, and it goes rolling across the battlefield until it is stopped by Diomedes, or rather, crushed under Montparnasse’s foot.  

The mistakes are scattered and few compared to the triumphs, though. Feuilly and Eponine’s Hector and Andromache pas de deux is bittersweet and beautiful - you can see the fear and heartbreak etched into Eponine’s expression, feel Feuilly’s conflict between wanting to support her in the steps and having to turn away - and when the lights dim as they leave, the audience’s applause swells still further.

The first act ends upon the embassy to Achilles, his refusal to return to the fight. Grantaire has almost too much fun with the whole scene and with Odysseus’ part, slick and sly and utterly failing to convince Achilles of anything. Really, he just relishes watching Enjolras perform close up, and it is a struggle to save his smile for when the curtain falls.

 

By the time Act Two starts off, the tension rising as the war gets bloodier, Grantaire’s jangling nerves have become _excitement_ , stinging anticipation of everything yet to come. Because they can _do_ this, he is sure of it now. He doesn’t even _need_ perfection, hardly cares what the audience will say: he’s proud of every second of it.    

He can’t remember the last time he stood in the wings of a stage and felt like this. He doesn’t know if he ever has.

This is different, Grantaire supposes, different from how it used to be. For one, he cares about the ballet as a whole. (Of course he does - he knows the ballet inside out, he created it, of _course_ he cares.) And he cares about every single one of these dancers (Montparnasse included), can feel every bit of their nerves and excitement like it is his own.  

He looks at this and sees all of it, every bit of effort invested in it, blood and sweat and tears, exhaustion, blisters upon blisters. God, it’s been hard, he hasn't forgotten that... But he’d take this pain any day over the pain he had before. That was steel-grey suffering, banging his fists fruitlessly against the walls around him, lashing out at anything less than empty perfection. It was days that rolled into days, nights he couldn’t unstring from the next, clawing at the canvas of his life as if there was something more behind it. Treading water. Suffocation.

Somehow, this isn’t.

This is what he wants, he thinks. This is what it could be.

 

If he has been meaning to sneak a look at the audience to try and discern some reactions from them, he forgets to, because Patroclus is already pleading with Achilles to rejoin the war. And now it’s Jehan’s solo, and it’s breathtaking, and the music is soaring, and all too soon comes the pas de deux after Patroclus’ death.

Grantaire’s seen it so many times before - knows exactly what to expect - and maybe he is the only one to feel it so strangely acutely, maybe he’s ridiculous for it, but the pas de deux has a magic to it he’s never seen before. His breath catches in his chest; Jehan and Enjolras have danced their hearts out.

 

And then they’re into Act Three, and Enjolras becomes still more dazzling than he was before, surging back into battle with blazing focus, fighting his way through the steady stream of corps members. These fight scenes are still compounded of ballet steps, but they are more aggressive and more acrobatic, bodies tumbling over his head, soldiers careening away on all sides as his spear finds its mark again and again.

The best part, of course, is when he comes up against the angry river god, whose banks have been saturated with corpses. Scamander - Bahorel, with his chest puffed out and uncharacteristically poised (and, honest to God, in tights), his whole body acting as a barrier between Achilles and the fleeing Trojans - makes for a more formidable foe. Bahorel, well-practised now at the move, plucks Enjolras right up with an arm around his waist and, holding him horizontally, hauls him back across the stage. Bahorel swings Enjolras down, leaving Achilles lying in a slump, and swaggers proudly back to his river and into the wings. A whole cluster of them have gathered behind Grantaire to see that star cameo, everyone now straining with silent laughter.

Eponine flits out as Athena to reassure Achilles that Hector is still to be defeated, and to lead the way to Troy. Grantaire only has one eye on it since he is still thumping Bahorel on the back in pride, but she gains Achilles’ attention and then starts off across the stage en couru, hurrying ahead to trick Hector into the duel that will be his demise.

Achilles has to get up and find his feet again, and Enjolras launches into his first cabriole, undaunted, and then it’s just a showy series of jumps back to this side of the wings -

But he must have lost his balance on the first jump, or he has landed wrong, because there’s a very distinct wobble, his pointe shoe twisting at an awkward angle. He goes for the next combination of jumps, but he’s behind in timing now, and Grantaire is sucking in feverish breaths in an attempt to stay calm. It sounds like Combeferre has noticed,because he slows the tempo enough for Enjolras to catch up. He may have recovered enough to manage the glissades and the next assemblé, but his leaps are distinctly more laboured, and beneath Achilles’ deadened anger, there is new strain pinching at Enjolras’ face.

He knows he can’t be the only one who has seen it, because everyone backstage has fallen still. Eponine has just exited the stage, and though she couldn’t have seen what happened, she reads it on their faces and whirls around to scrutinise Enjolras.

And there - Grantaire catches it as Enjolras turns briefly from the audience - a wince of honest pain. What has he done?

Dancers have a high tolerance for pain. It’s part of the profession: constant discomfort is to be expected. Every teacher drilled this into them all, all the way through school. If every muscle in your body is not aching, you’re not working hard enough.

So people get used to it, get good at ignoring crap like this.

And if Enjolras _can’t_ ignore it -

His feet are already propelling him forwards, guiding him towards the stage - he doesn’t know exactly what he’s going to do, besides get Enjolras to stop - when someone grabs his arm. It’s Eponine.

“It might just be cramp,” she points out, though her creased brow says otherwise. “Let him finish his bit. He’s nearly here, then he’s off for a few.”

Yes, Achilles will be off for a few minutes, and then have to return for his final showdown with Hector, the climax of the whole thing. Fucking hell. Grantaire’s probably just overreacting; it’ll be fine. If it can just be cramp -

“Joly’s coming,” Bossuet says in his ear, as Enjolras nears the wings and Feuilly carefully makes his entrance from the opposite side.

With a squeeze of Grantaire’s wrist, Eponine is off, Athena picking her way over to Hector in disguise.

Enjolras’ expression stays hardened as he appears beside Grantaire, throwing off his helmet, trying to keep half his attention still on the stage but failing. Instead, he’s bent down, gingerly massaging around his ankle.

“What did you _do_?” Grantaire whisper-yells, and it’s a goddamn mercy that his voice doesn’t break the way it wants to.

Enjolras shakes his head, brushing off the question. He tries rolling his foot from flat up to demi-pointe and has to squeeze his eyes shut to manage it. Bad. Bad sign.

“Enjolras. Let me see.” Joly’s here, and his instruction is firm. Unwilling, Enjolras props his leg up in better reach of Joly. Grantaire watches for the smallest signs of his face crumpling in the process, and tries to run a hand through his gelled hair to stop himself shaking. It doesn’t work, so he drops it back at his side, his knuckles white.

Joly will know best what he’s done, but everyone here can probably make a few good guesses. There are plenty of common injuries, anything that could see a dancer out for days or weeks or months, and the foot is an epicentre for them: ankle impingement, trigger toe, sprains and stress fractures, torn or ruptured tendons - those are just a _few_.

Some simple injuries can fell a career.

This injury isn’t some fault in Enjolras’ technique, Grantaire knows that much. Which means - it’s his fault. He’s been too ambitious with the choreography, pushed too hard. Asking him to be en pointe so often, on top of that? Enjolras has clearly been overworking, overstretched, and this is exactly what Joly warned him about. He’s been rash and irresponsible, and the company were no help - why did Grantaire think ploughing ahead with the ballet in such tight conditions was _ever_ a good idea?  

And what if he’s done more than just endanger Enjolras’ contract with the company, and actually laid waste to Enjolras’ entire dancing career?

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire mumbles, not sure anyone hears him.

Joly, finished examining Enjolras’ lower leg, turns not to him but to Grantaire.

“He can’t go back on -”

“I’ll manage,” Enjolras interjects, struggling to put his weight back onto his foot but reaching over for his helmet again.

“Grantaire, I forbid you to let him on,” Joly warns. “I don’t know how bad it is yet, but if he does a single jump he’ll only make it worse.”

There’s a silent _it’s not worth it_ in there, as though Grantaire is going to be more concerned about his grand vision than his dancers, his friends, Enjolras. Please.

Fuck the ballet.

“I’m _not_ ruining this,” Enjolras declares, eyes stung with furious tears. “I won’t ruin this for everyone. Not now, not like this.”

“Look,” Grantaire says, feeling each second fall away from him, from this, from what could have been a perfectly, blissfully easy night. He puts a hand to Enjolras’ shoulder, says weightily, “It’s okay. It’s not your fault, and no one will mind. What have I been saying this whole time? I always knew it was bound to fail, and what we’ve done is already better than I could have hoped, that’s enough for -” He actually musters a smile, his insides tearing him apart. They can end it here, and it’s fine, Grantaire honestly doesn’t mind. What they did was good, really good.  

“Send someone else on instead,” Joly says, apparently exasperated that they haven’t considered this yet. There’s probably only a minute to spare until Hector will be waiting to face Achilles, and face his death.

This could be the _Hector lives_ : alternate universe _Iliad_ , Grantaire thinks, slightly manically. What he says is: “No one else even knows the part.” It’s not a proper, full company production; there are only just enough dancers to go around, never mind understudies. No one would have had the time to learn anyone else’s part. They get this, right?

Half a minute. But Enjolras is already taking off his cuirass, his greaves, peeling off the armour of his costume. He holds out his helmet to Grantaire. “You do.”

Grantaire freezes, one hand reaching for the helmet out of reflex.

He... he does.

“But -” He can’t do this. There are many reasons why he didn’t cast himself in a main role, and many more why he’s not exactly in the right headspace to do it now. But then he looks around at a circle of expectant faces; sees Eponine out there, already trying to beckon an Achilles who isn’t coming; thinks about all that’s been put into this by everyone else; glances back at Enjolras who, despite the pain he’s in, is just looking at him.

“My practice pointe shoes -” He splutters, tearing off his own armour and pulling on Enjolras’ costume. Someone’s brain is working faster than his, because they’re already shoving them into his hands, and he’s pulling them on. He’s only been using them to experiment with these variations for the ballet, so they’re not painted the right colour, and they’re scuffed and scruffy and wouldn’t be let onto the stage of any company production in ten million years, and never mind that he looks nothing like Enjolras, and Achilles has suddenly become noticeably lighter-skinned, and never mind about -

Enjolras squeezes his hand. “Go.”

 

Grantaire goes, strides out into the light to meet Hector. If there’s murmuring in the audience, Grantaire is already too consumed to hear it. The worry shows in Hector’s steps, but Feuilly hardly seems fazed by the change of plan. He just gives Grantaire the slightest nod in encouragement when they’ve finished circling each other and move on to the duel itself. Most of the first blows of the spears are missed ones, but Achilles already has the upper hand, and often Hector ducks away on the defensive. Eventually, Hector’s spear clatters away, and Athena holds Achilles’ for him as the fight becomes more physical, Grantaire dropping from pointe as the movements become almost more contemporary, and he grabs Feuilly to assist as Feuilly goes cartwheeling. Hector calls for mercy and honour in his death, to no avail. _There are no trustworthy oaths between men and lions._ Achilles has no mercy left. _The dogs and the birds will have you for their feasting._

Forget acting. Grantaire doesn’t need to act: he’s angry enough at the old company, angry enough at _himself_ to need to channel it from anywhere else. Hector is staggering up from the floor when Athena hands Achilles his spear again, and he strikes the final blow with no remorse. Feuilly slumps, and Grantaire gathers up a corner of the ragged and bloodied cloth he has discreetly fallen upon. Having bundling it into a fist, he slips it over his shoulder, the cloth stretching out behind him in a train as he drags Feuilly’s body along on it, hauling him away in bitter victory.

  
Enjolras isn’t in the wings when Grantaire reappears there, only a few moments before he has to go out again for the finale, and all his churning anger washes away to concern. “How is he?” He croaks.

“Refusing to let Joly take him in for an X-ray, the lunatic,” Bossuet says, resting a hand on Grantaire’s arm. “Says he won’t leave the theatre ‘til the ballet’s over. But, by the amount he’s arguing,” he adds, “I’d say it’s not as bad as it looked.”  

Grantaire’s heart is in a vice, even so.

“Get through the end of this, R, and then you can start worrying again,” Bossuet advises, listening for the cue. “You’re on.”

  
He tries to follow that instruction, tries his best: there’s no use worrying while he’s onstage. All thought of Enjolras, of the audience, of whatever will happen when the ballet is over is pushed away. He needs his head utterly clear to remember how to dance this solo, because he has had more practice failing to dance than doing it right, and if he does anything, it should be to do justice to Enjolras’ adjustments.

Combeferre’s music guides him, haunting and slow. Grantaire’s pointework is faltering enough without him needing to try to make it so, but he has to centre all his focus in the fouetté turns, has to prepare and commit and make the leap of faith that he can do it. Exhausted already, he tries to let go, to release his emotions in the extension of his arms, lengthening into arabesques and losing himself in them.

It has been so long since he was last here, like this. Maybe he was better then, physically stronger, showier, more at ease. He had better stamina, could give a better performance.

But at least this makes _sense_ to him. Somewhere in the solo, even as Achilles casts away his rage, sows his grief into the earth, Grantaire starts to feel like he could go on and on.

Last time, facing the audience, finishing a show, had been the moment he’d decided to stop dancing. He doesn’t know why everyone was always so convinced that he had been planning it for a long time: maybe they had guessed at Grantaire’s mind before he had figured it out himself. But as far as he remembers, he had never had a plan to leave at all. He had already hated it, sure, had experienced new twinges of resentment every day, but he hadn’t been stoking them _towards_ anything. He supposes he had hopes that they would sink away sometime, the things he had been loathing for years.

And there he was, the press night of a new production, the principal role bestowed upon him, three acts of perfect mimicry of someone else’s vision, something a thousand people might have danced before. He had thrown all he had into it, had been hacking away at himself for months to please everyone else, was so afraid to be devoured by disappointment that perhaps he hadn’t realised he was already drowning.

The curtain call, the audience roaring: Grantaire had felt a flash of all that would come next - the reviews, the praise, the repetition, the realisation that this was all there _was_ \- and he had wondered at it, at feeling absolutely nothing.

 _Why am I doing this?_ He'd asked himself, as he took his bow. _What would I miss?_ The answer was: nothing. I don’t know.

 

People, generally, don’t seem to like impulsive decisions. Maybe foregoing conscious thought and careful deliberation does leave something lacking in the result. Grantaire won’t deny that enough of his decisions have been foolhardy, reckless, ill-conceived as well. So maybe it’s a fault of his and not of everyone else; maybe he’s a less-evolved human for giving his gut - his heart? - any say at all. He has been lambasted enough for it, after all, people picking over the aftermath of his decision until there was no flesh left, just bones, until at last their interest had decayed enough to let his choice lie.  

And maybe he has some residual regrets. But if he knows anything, he knows this: sometimes even the most and best thought-out decisions are terrible mistakes. And sometimes you just _know_ , and those decisions aren’t.

Ballet relies on structure and discipline, patience and practice, thought upon thought... but to dance? There’s still something to be said for impulse and passion and instinct, a need that goes beyond conscious thought.

 

All too soon, he collapses to his knees, curls forwards into the ballet’s final pose.

Reality is fuzzy around him, because he can hear the audience rumbling to life as the music fades. But then - the orchestra strikes back up, not loud, not any of the pieces Combeferre has created for the _Iliad..._ but strangely familiar. Eyes still fixed to the floor, he strains his ears, wondering if he’s imagining it. And then it swells up slightly, and instantly he recognises it. It’s - of all things - _Queen_. He’s not imagining it. They’re actually playing _Who Wants to Live Forever._

He doesn’t know whose idea it was, doesn’t understand -

At first he nearly breaks into a laugh. But then... something in Grantaire comes undone. Some kind of internal gear clunks out of place, just jolts by an inch, and the next moment the whole contraption collapses in on itself, everything wrenched away at once. He buries his head in his hands, suddenly holding back a flood of tears. What the fuck is happening to him? He can sense the curtains descending on the final scene, is certain they’re watching him in bemusement from the wings, but he can’t make himself get up. Here he is, half-wondering if this is happening at all, if any of this was real, if he’ll ever be able to move again.

But he knows he has to, because he can hear Bossuet trying to cobble people together for the curtain call, and the audience has broken out into rousing applause, and right now he’s in the way.

Discreetly brushing the wetness off his cheeks, he sucks in a giant breath and staggers to his feet. He doesn’t even have to make it to the side of the stage before the rest of them all swarm on for their révérence as the audience come back into view - or would come into view, if he weren’t half-blind right now - and Grantaire can’t even tell who’s standing next to him as they step up to join the girls and fall into their bows.

The audience are still applauding. He sinks into another bow, and when he straightens up he realises that everyone else has gone, he’s alone on stage.

The curtains have only just fallen and he has barely staggered into the wings when someone crashes into him, hoisting him up into a hug.

It’s Courfeyrac, because of course it is. He’s _yelling_ something joyously in his ear, and Grantaire is a mess right now so all he can do is hug him back, and let everyone else, including half the corps members, surge forwards in chaos. At one point, Marius grabs him and Cosette batters him away to have her turn, and then Bahorel slings an arm around him, and Feuilly is grinning across at him and Floréal shoots him a look and even Boissy has a nice word or two, and Montparnasse has a whole host of foul ones in celebration, and Eponine, of them all, looks a little teary, but then Gavroche leaps onto her back to save her from herself, probably crushing her ribs in the process.      

And Combeferre’s there too, and he must have gotten a bouquet of flowers for his conducting, and Grantaire isn’t sure how he didn’t notice this. But anyway he flings himself at Ferre, mumbling incoherently, “How did you know -”

“Hope you didn’t mind being surprised,” Combeferre says, pulling away - probably to save the flowers - and patting Grantaire’s back almost absently. “I was - ah, informed - that you have a thing for _Queen_.”

Grantaire snorts aloud, but he's also nodding sheepishly.

Enjolras and Joly, meanwhile, are still nowhere in sight.

“Joly says he was lucky, he’s going to be fine,” Bossuet tells him, when he falls in for his hug.

“You swear?” He asks, knowing how stupid he must sound.

“I swear.”

Grantaire clutches his friend a little tighter in overwhelming relief.

 

They all troop offstage, but the evening is by no means over; there’s supposed to be a reception in the theatre bar. They have a few more minutes backstage to get changed first.

Musichetta, bless her, has left every dancer a little nosegay of flowers in each of their corners of the dressing rooms, bright little bouquets of red and yellow. It’s an especially kind gesture knowing that the corps de ballet rarely seem to get the same recognition at proper performances, and even nicer given all the male dancers at the old company are forbidden from receiving flowers on stage, some old tradition that has never been reasonably explained to Grantaire, anyway.

He is halfway through buttoning up a proper shirt when Courfeyrac sidles back into the room, another thankful distraction from his reeling head. He’s got a hand behind his back, but the arrangement of roses and lilies he’s holding is mammoth, too big to be properly concealed.    

He could _not_ comment, since Courfeyrac is obviously trying to be subtle about it. But...

“Oh, for me?” Grantaire feigns surprise, a hand leaping dramatically to his chest. “Courf, you shouldn’t have.”

“I _should_ have, probably,” Courfeyrac returns, with an apologetic grin. “Being our director, and all.”

“Pfft,” he returns, waving him off.

“I’ll throw you a party,” Courf suggests seriously. “A proper one, just for all of us, not like tonight. After the run’s done, we’ll do up something big to celebrate.” However, he has volunteered nothing to give Grantaire any more fodder for teasing, just sets the flowers down with an inordinate amount of tenderness and starts getting changed out of his costume.

“Looks like Musichetta’s playing favourites,” Grantaire says anyway, tongue in cheek. He knows perfectly well that Chetta had nothing to do with those, because the flowers from her are already propped against Courfeyrac’s things. He’d thought she must have had something to do with Combeferre’s flowers too, but maybe not. “Don’t let Joly and Bossuet see, they’ll get jealous.”

Grantaire doesn’t think he’s seen Courfeyrac as bashful as this since... well, ever. He just lets out a guilty laugh, folding the card from the bouquet into his pocket as if that’s the story he’s playing along with.

“They’re stunning, though,” Grantaire adds, taking one last stab, his eyebrows raised. Courf makes an indistinct noise in what he presumes is agreement.

Yeah, he’s not getting him to talk tonight.

 

Once Grantaire has pulled on his shoes, he heads out to try and finally find Enjolras, but he’s barely three steps deep on his search when Eponine accosts him. Her hair is still up in a bun, but she’s now in a black dress and possibly darker eye-makeup than before, and she links arms with him. “You ready to mingle?”

“No, I’ve got to find -”

“I promise you, he’s fine, Joly fixed him all up,” Eponine says, and although there’s a gentle look in her eyes, her hold on his arm is resolute. “He’s probably already up there at the party, charming all the guests.” Grantaire isn’t sure he believes her, but he has an unwilling flashback to first seeing Enjolras at the mixed programme premiere. It feels like lifetimes ago.

“Come on, R,” Eponine coaxes him, if by coaxing one can mean elbowing him in the ribs and essentially dragging him along on her march towards the theatre bar where everyone will be waiting. “There are so many fucking people who are going to be dying to talk to you right now.” A crowd of family and friends and important audience members, except not the first two, because nothing about this invitation was ever going to get Grantaire’s father here, and practically all of the friends he has or cares about anymore were already _in_ his ballet. But maybe Enjolras is out there.

“Try and enjoy it,” Eponine hisses, as almost immediately they are surrounded by a cluster of guests.

Grantaire is both too dazed and distracted to _enjoy_ it - or even to pay much attention to what people are saying to him personally - but he does get the general sense that there are fewer gloating looks and snobbish addresses being directed at him than he was expecting.

Mostly he smiles and nods and looks past the journalists and industry people, quietly pinpointing his friends in the room, watching them shake hands and laugh with people, letting the tension in his chest slowly unwind as he does so.

For a while, his gaze bounces from blond head to blond head, but doesn’t linger on any long. Instead, he starts trying to pick out the faces of the company’s scouts, wondering what any of them have made of the _Iliad_. Amidst this, his eyes latch onto white hair and a wrinkled brow that he recognises from right across the room. Gillenormand himself. Grantaire scans the room at twice the pace, wondering if Marius knows. He can’t see him, but he spots Eponine instead, and tries to catch her attention with widened eyes, darting pointedly over to Marius’ grandfather. Eponine squints and shrugs in incomprehension, and turns back to her conversation, but not before she has gleefully flashed Grantaire the sight of four or five professional-looking cards in her hand.

He smiles at her, and reluctantly tunes back into the group standing with him. “What a comeback, we hope to see much more from you, young man -”    

“Thank you so much,” Grantaire assures them, nodding his head energetically, “if you’ll just excuse me -” He gives a vague gesture, but no one stops him as he turns on his heel and hurries from the bar.

 

The backstage hallways are deserted and dimly lit, but Grantaire holes himself up in one of the bathrooms anyway, just for a moment to himself. Cupping his hands full of water, he splashes his face, leaning over the sink. He blinks at himself, a little startled by his own reflection. Remnants of his stage makeup stain the paper towels as he dries off his face, and he lets the door swing shut behind him as he ventures out again. He wanders slowly, giving himself an extra minute to dawdle, to let the reality of tonight settle around him undisturbed.

He almost doesn’t notice a figure emerge from one of the dressing rooms at the other end of the hall.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras says, surprised.

Grantaire freezes, staring at him. He’s still partly styled for the stage, hair half-up, half down, but he has changed into looser clothes. One trouser leg is rolled up, revealing the compression bandage wrapping his foot to his mid-ankle. It is sheer relief even to see him standing.

“Are you alright?” He calls out hoarsely, searching Enjolras for other signs of injury, for some indication of anything more to curb the concern still ricocheting around inside him. Perhaps the worry is blinding him, because he can’t tell: Enjolras’ face is unreadable, the look in his eyes blazing but unfathomable.

Grantaire finds himself rooted to the spot, so in the end, it’s Enjolras who starts to stride towards him. Well, actually - he’s hobbling, barefoot down the hall. (It’s the most purposeful hobbling he’s ever seen.) When it clicks in Grantaire’s mind that Enjolras is coming to _him_ , Grantaire takes pity, and lurches forward to meet him halfway.

He still hasn’t gotten an answer, but his arms are open, ready to curl around Enjolras with no intention, this time, of letting him go. Heart hammering in his chest, they collide into the embrace. But he thinks maybe they both get mixed up about which direction to lean in; Enjolras’ hand has curved around the back of his neck, their noses barely miss each other - and then time seems to fracture away from them, as Enjolras surges forwards and presses his mouth to Grantaire’s.  

Grantaire’s wide eyes flutter shut as he returns the kiss, surprise and disbelief gradually softening the motion until they break apart.

Enjolras is looking at him, intent. In a daze, he lifts the back of his hand to Enjolras’ forehead, testing its temperature. “Tell me you’re not delirious, too?”

Enjolras scoffs, his own hand warm where it’s still resting. “I’ve never been better.”

“Am _I_ delirious?” Grantaire breathes, mostly to himself.

There’s a worried crease between Enjolras’ eyebrows now, and his touch lightens at the back of Grantaire’s neck as he begins to pulls away.

“No, no, no,” Grantaire counters. “Please don’t stop.”

“Are you sure?”

Is _he_ sure? Grantaire looks at him, earnest. “You know I’m kind of... completely in love with you, right?” He says, because he’s learned his lesson since last night, and he’s not above spelling it out.

“Kind of,” Enjolras repeats, but before Grantaire has the time to properly kick himself for ruining a perfectly decent declaration with a shitty - and inaccurate - qualifier, he catches the airy smile on Enjolras’ face. “Good, because I’m kind of completely in love with you, too.”

“That’s cool,” he answers, terribly light-headed. “That’s very, very cool.”

Someone should maybe stop him talking now. Good idea, Grantaire. He folds his arms around Enjolras again and tilts his mouth up for another kiss.

“I’ve got another few ice packs for later, Enjolras,” Joly’s voice proclaims out of nowhere, “and I’m writing you up instructions for what to do when you get home - oh,” he adds, as he pauses in the hallway and sees them both frozen there. “Hi, R.”

“Hey,” Grantaire manages, biting his lip in a measure against the crimson blooming rapidly on his cheeks.

“Sure,” Enjolras responds delicately, refusing to look at Joly or to loosen his hold on Grantaire in the slightest. “Thank you.”

“Great,” Joly says cheerfully, at Enjolras’ shoulder now. “I hate to ask, but - would you mind - ?”

 _Shit_ , they’re kind of blocking the corridor. Instead of just, uh, extricating themselves, Enjolras backs Grantaire up against the wall and leans in, humming a laugh when Joly thanks them. Their foreheads come to rest against each other while they collect themselves briefly, waiting for Joly to edge past - with not, Grantaire admits it, altogether much restraint.

And at last Joly is round the corner (“Carry on!” he calls, as he goes), and Grantaire, now recognising the value of this privacy, kisses Enjolras with a keener sense of commitment, coaxing his mouth open. Enjolras’ fingers thread into his hair more urgently, and Grantaire presses closer - and nearly stands on Enjolras’ bandaged-up foot.

He curses himself. “What the hell are you doing?” He admonishes, pulling back in his best attempt to look disapproving. “You shouldn’t be _standing_ , you idiot!”

Enjolras, to Grantaire’s dismay, gives him a “Mmhmm,” and otherwise completely ignores him.

Grantaire feels like he would be a lot better at arguing if Enjolras wasn’t looking at him from under his eyelashes like that.

“I’m _serious_.”

Enjolras is also kissing him again, and Grantaire’s grumble may or may not come out as more of a moan. Still, he’s not giving up, so he tightens his grip on Enjolras’ hips and begins steering them, mid-kiss, along the hall, not oblivious to Enjolras’ grimaces as they go. Finally, they reach the bottom of the stairs up to the rehearsal studio, and Grantaire backs Enjolras up until he’s perched upon them. Grantaire rests a knee against another step to steady himself and, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that all weight is off Enjolras’ foot, he leans forwards again, smug.

That said, he still can’t quite believe this. Here he is, with his hands grasping at Enjolras under his t-shirt and his tongue in his mouth; not half an hour ago he was still convinced he’d destroyed all hopes of Enjolras’ ballet career; a little before that, Grantaire was _doing_ ballet again after six bloody _years_ , actually somehow having pulled off his own _production_ . At some point, Grantaire thinks his brain is probably just going to shut itself off from sensory and emotional overload. It’s been a heck of a day. And it doesn’t help that every time they pause for breath Enjolras turns that _smile_ on him, so daft and radiant and light.  

“ _You_ shouldn’t be back here,” Enjolras says eventually, gently shoving him upwards. “You should be out there, talking to your admirers. Getting credit for your production. Enjoying your night.”

“Mmhmm,” Grantaire answers pointedly. He nods soberly, like he’s not already, very obviously, to a frankly ridiculous degree, enjoying his night.

“I’m not joking,” Enjolras tells him, pushing at his shoulders again and trying desperately to keep a neutral expression as Grantaire’s lips begin to travel along his jawline.

“This is enough for me,” he murmurs against Enjolras’ skin. The _ballet_ might be over, but maybe he doesn’t have to let Enjolras go.

But then again, Grantaire remembers. Enjolras still has Paris. Courfeyrac might go to Spain, Eponine and Gavroche might move to _Germany_ \- and if they don’t, they’ll still be stuck with that _fucking_ company, and he’ll be back where he started, with no prospects, no job and no ballet, no friends and no theatre -

 

Wait.

“Mrs. Bahorel,” he mouths abruptly, lurching up from Enjolras’ neck. He’s blinking too rapidly to pay much attention to Enjolras’ sudden frown, just disentangles himself - with some effort - pushes himself off the stairs, and onto his feet. “Mrs. Bahorel,” he repeats, with urgency. He turns on his heel to set off down the hall.

“Wait,” Enjolras protests, still stunned on the steps. “R!”

Grantaire shoots a hand behind him in a gesture of _I’ll be right back_ , and then, in a new burst of energy, he breaks into a jog.

 

He feels like a madman bursting through the entrance to the theatre bar, let loose on the room, but no one even seems to notice him. He scans the room from the doorway, a frenzied search for any sign of Bahorel’s mother. It takes a minute, but there she is, a tiny, dark-haired lady (Bahorel has dwarfed her since he was thirteen), laughing and shaking hands with a couple in expensive clothes. Grantaire has no time for niceties right now: he barges right up, out of breath. “Mrs. Bahorel!” He exclaims.

“Call me Fátima, _querido_ ,” she tells him, like she’s been telling him for years. She pulls him down to kiss him on the cheek in greeting, and thankfully doesn’t seem too annoyed at the interruption. And nor do the other couple, it looks like; maybe this is a bonus of it technically being his party. He nods carelessly at them before Mrs. Bahorel draws him along beside her, stepping away from the pair.

“Many congratulations on your night,” she says, and maybe she can see that he’s bursting with something, because she adds, “and what can I do for you?”

That’s the thing.

“I don’t -” he rakes a hand through his hair (turns out most of the hairspray has been worked out by Enjolras’ fingers) while he attempts to sort through the jumble of words, “- I know all the money this week makes is going back to you, to the theatre or to charity or whichever, and I can’t even pay you back for the budget you gave _me_ yet - so I don’t have a, a proper deposit to give you, but -” She puts a calming hand on his forearm and he chokes it out. “But you can’t sell the theatre.”

“I mean -” Grantaire amends hastily, kicking himself, “- you haven’t, have you? Obviously I know I can’t stop you, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of offers -” _look_ at this place now, now it’s been all fixed up, looks like a proper up-and-coming venue, _fuck_ , “- and that’s fine, that’s fine, but if there’s the slightest chance you can wait to sell it, if you don’t have to get rid of it straight away, I’ll rent it, or, figure out some way to raise the money to buy it, or... it’s just, I’m interested. I’d love to keep working here somehow. If it’s not too late, please don’t sell it,” he entreats her. “I’ll do anything if you don’t.”

Briefly, he thinks that maybe he’s coming on _too_ desperate, but -

“Calm yourself, my son,” she says, patting him on the arm. “I can promise you that we are not selling the theatre tonight. But I have -” and here’s where Grantaire knows he’s gotten his hopes up, “- already had another offer for its use.”

“Who for?” He asks, still half-hoping. He would share the place, if he had to.

“Your ballet has inspired something, I think,” she explains. “There is a young man who wishes to find a permanent residence for a group of dancers, in fact, who have designs to run their own charity, or create a new company.”

Grantaire’s brow furrows.

“However, if I recall correctly, he says he might still be looking for a choreographer. Ah!” She exclaims, steering him around by his arm to point out something behind him. “There he is, right there.”

Grantaire follows her finger. He’s utterly dishevelled and still barefoot, limping towards them, his eyes darting from Mrs. Bahorel to Grantaire. He raises his eyebrows hesitantly, questioning.

Grantaire imagines having a hundred years to mull it over, and he laughs at the thought. He nods, and nods again.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” Enjolras murmurs, finally catching up to him.

“I know.” Grantaire says. “I want to. I will.”

Mrs. Bahorel beams at them both.

 

“You didn’t even let me ask it,” Enjolras says plaintively, nudging him with his shoulder about ten minutes later, when Mrs. Bahorel has moved off again. “I’ve been trying to propose this to you all week.”

Grantaire grins. “Ask me now, then.”

He gets rolled eyes in response, but even so, Enjolras draws himself up and gazes at Grantaire with wide eyes.

“Grantaire, will you start a ballet company with me?”

He breaks out into a manic laugh. “You _fucking_ bet I will.”

Enjolras joins in.

But when they finally calm down, he adds, “I mean, it’s not just with me. With _us_ , I should have said. Not that anything’s set in stone - not without you - but we were imagining more a joint effort, a joint enterprise. The whole group of us, we were thinking, no one of us with sole control or sole responsibility - unless you’d rather - ?”

Grantaire cuts him off right there. What, be in charge? Do it _alone_ ? Uh, everyone in the _Iliad_ has seen how terribly he does at that. “Be a tyrant? No thanks,” he says, grinning wide. “A group effort sounds good to me. The others, they’re - they’re actually in? Like, for real?”

“Maybe you should ask them yourself.”

  
A short while later - and with Gavroche for a makeshift sheepdog - they have succeeded in rounding them all up; everyone has piled into the rehearsal studio, flopping into a weary circle on the floor, half-finished drinks littered around them.

“There’s a _lot_ we’ll have to think through,” Enjolras is saying, with Joly fussing with the compression wrap at his foot, and one of his hands laced in Grantaire’s, “- fundraising and planning and objectives and allocating responsibilities, all these practical things, and some of us have current contracts to finish out first, but -” Eponine is glaring at him, slightly, “- there’s time for all that when we’re not all half dead,” he finishes up swiftly. “We’ll talk more after the rest of the _Iliad_ performances.”

Grantaire really wishes he could stop grinning like a fool. “That is, whoever’s interested,” he amends, because he wouldn’t put it past Enjolras to have roped half of them into it with tricks of persuasion or his earnest puppy-eyes or, like, bribes, maybe. “No pressure, obviously.”

“Are you in, R?” Jehan asks.

“It looks like he’s been convinced,” Cosette says sweetly, and a number of people smirk at his hand in Enjolras’.

“He did nothing,” Grantaire objects, mildly annoyed that no one will even think it was at all his idea (it’s not his fault they all stole it first). In any case, he adds with dignity, “but yeah, I am.”

“Then so am I,” Jehan replies.

“I _guess_ ,” Eponine agrees, feigning a sigh.

Courfeyrac doesn’t hold back, just lets out a whoop of agreement, and Combeferre is nodding, and then Feuilly says yes, and Bossuet and Musichetta and Joly are on board, and everyone in the room, even Marius, declares themselves in, and then even _Montparnasse_ offers a shrug... which Grantaire figures is _kind_ of agreement, potentially?

Well, holy shit.

Grantaire lifts his drink in an easy toast. “To the Arcadia Ballet Company,” he proclaims, stretching out his free hand to clink his glass with the rest of them amid a chorus of laughter.

“The Arcadia Ballet Company.”

(“Wait,” Bahorel insists, despite the fact he doesn’t really go here. “Aren’t we gonna take a poll on the potential names?”)  

 

The press night gathering has wound down somewhat with half its party missing, and eventually everyone decides to turn in for the night; there’s another long week to come.

Grantaire hasn’t spent more than a minute without someone hugging him, but now the theatre has quieted and he’s switching on the alarms and turning off the lights by the stage door, he’s swaying on his feet. He doesn’t think he has been this tired in twenty-seven years.

Enjolras is waiting for him, leaning on the inside frame of the doorway.

“Are we - going too fast?” Enjolras worries aloud. “Maybe tonight wasn’t the night for it all at once, between the performance - _this_ \- starting up a new _company_ -”

Grantaire tries not to melt into a puddle at the word _this_.

“I don’t know,” he answers instead, as honestly as he can.

On one level, it’s possibly the most terrifying place he’s ever been in. There’s so much that could go wrong. It’s already like he’s never had more to lose.

“But it feels right, you know?” He says determinedly. Everything about it feels right. “And - I really think we can make it work.”

Enjolras looks relieved. “I do, too.”

“It _is_ insane, though,” Grantaire adds anyway, dazed and dumbfounded and impossibly buoyant. “Utter madness.”

“Right up your alley, then,” Enjolras returns. The corner of his lip twitches upwards.

Grantaire thinks back on the insanity of this whole endeavour.

“That’s true.”

 

“Got all your stuff?” He asks, his hand hovering at the last lightswitch. “The rest of the ice packs?”

Enjolras nods.  

“How are you feeling?”

“Never better,” Enjolras tells him again, as they step outside. Grantaire waits pointedly. “It’s not so bad. A few hours of rest and some painkillers and I’ll be able to manage tomorrow night.”

Grantaire stuffs the keys in his pocket and steps up towards Enjolras. “Oh, don’t think you’ll be dancing tomorrow,” he says, and however teasing his tone, his gaze is firm. He reaches up to cup one side of Enjolras’ face in his hand, a thumb brushing over his cheek.

“What?” Enjolras says stubbornly. “I’ll be _fine_ by tomorrow.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be performing for the rest of the week,” he threatens.

Enjolras, leaning in, just laughs. He clearly isn’t taking Grantaire seriously, the ass.  

“Are you trying to steal my role?” Enjolras teases, his mouth mere centimetres from Grantaire’s. “So _now_ you want to play Achilles.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes dramatically. “You can keep Achilles,” he declares. “It’s your role for as long as you want it.”

“As I was saying. I have no plans to give it up.”

“Maybe when everything gets sorted out, one day - you know, later - we can do a revised production, put the _Iliad_ on again,” Grantaire muses idly. “When we can come back to it fresh, spend more time - when you’re not _injured_ ,” he trails off with a shrug.

“I’d like that,” Enjolras answers.

Grantaire kisses him.

“But seriously,” he says. He’s well aware that they should both really be getting home before they have to turn up here again tomorrow, but he also likes where he is right now too much to want to leave. “What _did_ you manage to do to yourself?”

Enjolras sighs.

“How’s this for irony,” he says. “I tore my Achilles' tendon.”

Grantaire’s principal reaction is to wince aloud, his brows crashing together - tendonitis is not fun, man - but his jaw does drop open at the irony. “Holy shit. You’re _kidding_.”

Abruptly, Enjolras is smirking. “Yeah, I am. It’s just a minor sprain.”

Grantaire has never heard anyone quite so pleased with themselves about spraining their ankle.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “Just, wow.”

Enjolras is laughing at him.

“Shut up,” Grantaire says fondly.

Enjolras beams. “Gladly,” he answers, and closes the gap between them once more.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. Guuuuys. I finished the thing! 
> 
> I am not a natural thing-finisher - in fact, I was starting to feel scarily like Grantaire in not being able or wanting to get to the end??? how life imitates art - so I mean this from my heart when I say your comments made all the difference in forcing me to see this through. Thanks to those of you who've been reading from the start and those of you who've been bingeing it recently and all of you who've made my day with kudos and thank you to every single person who's taken the time to read this weirdly specific les mis fic about an Iliad ballet. <3 
> 
> (I am still eternally sad that this is only a thing that exists inside my head, but hopefully I've made a decent case for why it _totally should_ be a ballet.) 
> 
> In other news, I may not be willing to let this ballet au go for good, so if there's interest (i.e. you're not all sick of it) I'll probably play around in this universe some more. I probably won't get to anything immediately, but if you have any requests for deleted scenes or scenarios, basically anything you'd read some more drabbling about with the ballet!amis or the future Arcadia Ballet Company, definitely [let me know!](http://darrenjolras.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> Thanks again for reading, you're all the best <333
> 
> 17/06 EDIT: Just thought I'd drop back by to offer you links to some beautiful fanart inspired by this fic! Thanks to [tissueboxesforseals](http://tissueboxesforseals.tumblr.com/post/160581787005/thank-you-to-musain-de-revolution-who-requested) and to [enjolras-satellite](http://enjolras-satellite.tumblr.com/post/160489174029/so-i-just-finished-libert%C3%A9-egalit%C3%A9-demi-pli%C3%A9-by) for the stunning drawings! 
> 
> Also a major shoutout to [teamdiverseprotagonists](http://archiveofourown.org/users/teamdiverseprotagonists/pseuds/teamdiverseprotagonists) who discovered [an amazing dance section](https://www.instagram.com/p/BT60QZIAmW5/) of a revival of a contemporary musical Iliad/Odyssey! It's a Paris scene and so adorable! He's already basically Marius wooing Cosette on that park bench hahaha.


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